There was a digital SLR in the mix, although it frankly was not my first love. Because I have this long-standing camera addiction, I’m often asked what camera I would recommend. That’s tough, because people expect different things of their digital images. If you have children who are playing sports events, you need something with a lot of zoom to get you out there in the action.

If you have pets and want images that don’t make them look  like ravening werewolves, you need something that performs well in low light or has a directional flash. Frankly, the options are endless today, including the new class of hybrid cameras that let you extract stills from your high definition video footage.

I will say that I haven’t bough a camera in several years without obsessive research, starting on sites like Steve’s Digicams and then moving on to customer reviews on Amazon. I usually then hit flickr, search for the camera in question, and look at lots of pictures to see how real people are using the camera in the real world. I am strongly against impulse buys when it comes to digital cameras. You usually wind up with the one that looks cool, not the camera that takes the best images.

At this stage of the game, the megapixel war is off the charts, with 12 weighing in as the current magic number. That being said, there are still some perfectly wonderful 5 megapixel images being taken every day — even if a lot of them are being produced by cell phone cameras!

If you, too, have this addiction, I hope the significant others in your life support it as mine do. There is, for me, sheer joy, and complete suspension of thought when I’m working to get the perfect shot. Cameras are meant to be loved, so find the one you love, and then push it to the absolute limit.

The new era has begun, and the general assumption is that I have been the heir to the throne all along. All of you who are getting ready to say you saw this coming, really, shut up. I don’t want to hear it.

It was a long, hot, miserable weekend. With each new change in our lives, I become more and more aware that R.’s coping abilities have long since fled the country. I’m going to have to go back to setting the alarm and getting up to take her to the bathroom between 2:30 and 3 because the sleep deprivation is getting the best of me.

I have discovered that if I will do that for several night, she realizes she doesn’t like to be awakened abruptly any more than I do, and her physical capabilities miraculously improve.

My major distraction of the weekend has been rebuilding my collection of ancient country music, which has remained trapped on my first generation iPod Touch since the upgrade to a 4G a few months ago. Apple’s rules about the provenance of music tracks have gotten stronger, and 90% of my stuff won’t import.

Since a friend and I agreed that we don’t think country music sounds right anyway unless it has the ambiance of an AM station in a 1965 Ford truck, the problem is being solved by an Android app that rips tracks from Internet radio stations labeled to suit the Great God iTune.

It’s already saved me about $200, and my collection is nudging upward out of the 1960s and even into the early Eighties, a long overdue upgrade. That and writing car reviews actually saved my sanity the last couple of days.

This was Saturday’s other big project:

Those are two milkweed plants Dr. Susan brought over to help attract Monarch butterflies. And seriously? If the Stupid Yardmen don’t get the point and leave them the hell alone? Those little plastic pickets are gonna get shoved . . . well, use your imagination.

Sigh. Onward. Upward. Monday. So thrilled.

Late last Thursday, July 7, I learned that our next-door neighbor and reigning HOA president, The Empress, died. Her real name was Frances, and this will be the first time you’ve ever actually seen her. You’ve certainly heard about her. In a short-enough original package shrunk down to hobbit stature over the years, she cast a long shadow.

I admit when I received the news, I sat down and cried. Over the years, Frances and I locked horns on more than one occasion, but she had the “you can’t cuss my dog” attitude about me. When others who have never lifted a finger to help in our situation criticized me, she stoutly defended me.

There were countless afternoons I sat in her lemon-yellow kitchen and talked about the difficulties of caregiving. She knew because she had cared for her bed-ridden mother-in-law at home to the end. Her responses and suggestions were always practical, sometimes brutally so. Although she rarely cursed, she told me in no uncertain terms I shouldn’t give a damn about what anyone thought since they weren’t willing to take so much as half a dozen footsteps in my shoes.

Over the past year or so, as she herself grew more frail, we had buried what was never a very sharp hatchet. I opened pill bottles and changed light bulbs, lifted boxes, and moved plants. Sometimes I know she made things up as an excuse to call. The last time we talked, we laughed and I promised to bring her a hot fudge sundae the next time I picked one up for R.

Last night, because it had been neglected for many days and was withering, I watered her tiny yard. There are things I will never be able to bring myself to ignore around here, because I know how she liked things to be done. We might own our 6th of this property, but it always belonged to the Empress.

I didn’t expect I would miss her so much. It didn’t cross my mind that her death would hurt. Frankly, I honestly didn’t think death had the guts to come after her. Her daughter told me Frances liked to go toe-to-toe with me because I wouldn’t back down either. Of course, I did. Many, many times. It’s hard not to when you’re looking down at a four-foot-tall determined octogenarian.

The Empress is dead. Long live the Empress. It was my honor to serve in her court and to have been allowed a place by the throne.

A couple of weeks ago I misplaced my bank card – in fact, made it all the way to the bank to deposit the rare check (most of my transactions are electronic) – and no card. I came home, remembering I’d had it out of my wallet in the infamous green chair to pay a bill. It took some digging to find where the card had fallen down between the cushion and the frame. In the process, I found several catnip mice in varying stages of decay, some bottle caps, a lost earring, and more cat litter accumulation than I like to think about.

I first started thinking about working at home as a goal probably 15 or more years ago. It’s taken a long while for that idea to become a reality, and what I do now – and have done for almost four years – freelance writing, was driven by necessity. Very rarely are the topics interesting. The pay is, for the most part, abysmal, and yet, I do like working at home.

Right now I’m in a bit of a snit over a client’s invoicing requirements among other things, and I’ve been time-stamping the entries showing work completed. What that has shown me, however, is just how interrupted my days really are. At the same time that the realization is frustrating in the extreme, it’s also good to stop and take stock of how time passes in this bubble of ours. This morning, for instance, I got up a little before 5 a.m. specifically to enjoy the peace and quiet only to have R. call me for the first time at 5:25.

I work seven days a week at every imaginable hour, often in annoying jumps and starts. It seems the last three days I’ll get all but the last sentence of a paragraph done and have to go address some “need” of hers. Fellow writers will appreciate how hard it is to come back to a paragraph left in that condition and pick up where you left off. On Saturday, R. turned 81 and I swear she becomes more like a cranky toddler every day, demanding my attention and manufacturing ways to get it.

And yet, I can watch MonsterQuest re-runs while I work, hang out in my pajamas, stop for meditation breaks, and well . . . yes . . . Angry Birds is installed on my iPod. All in all, it’s a pretty danged good trade-off for a name plate and all the hassles that go with working in an office environment.

Yesterday in the car, I was listening to an episode of Darkness Radio, a paranormal program I hear in podcast version. The speaker was talking about energy around work and money, and how easily the Universe gets a scrambled signal about your goals. In the spiritual math as she was laying it out, “I hate money” cancels out “I need more money,” because it’s a mixed message.

It made me stop and think how few times I actually take a moment to acknowledge that all difficulties aside, I actually do like what I do. I thought it might not hurt to pause and clarify that for the Universe. Now, about the “more money” . . .

My first morning in the Big City, after a wretched night on a torture chamber of a fold-out loveseat bed, I watched the women’s final at Wimbledon. Martina kicking somebody’s butt. I don’t remember who at the moment.

R. was 60 at the time and we didn’t know each other. Today, she turns 81. I have rented “The King’s Speech,” which we will watch over a bowl of white cheddar popcorn. Her major gift is a bag of all-caramel Snickers bars, her new favorite thing in the whole world. Her birthday supper will be crab cakes from Central Market.

I’ll arrange everything at her place at the table, so when she comes out there will be “surprises.” Not earth-shattering as birthday celebrations go, but I think she’ll like it. Anything to take her mind off the heat, which I wish the weathermen would just shut up about. It’s 72 degrees in here with enough fans going to simulate a decent wind tunnel, but they give the temperature heat index and she starts in about there being “no air,” preparatory to what I can only call an attack of the “vapors.”

In other “lil ole lady” news, the Empress is in the hospital with a blood clot in her leg and fluid around her heart. Her daughter emailed me last night. From her hospital bed, the Empress wanted to make sure I know I’m temporarily in charge of the kingdom.

I spoke to the Empress day before yesterday and she did not sound good at all. This time, I’m really worried about her. Over the past two months, the medical community has put her through so much unnecessary hell, she’s badly depressed, which is way out of character for her. The quickest way to make somebody old is to treat them as if they are old, which is precisely what she’s been getting from all fronts. I think she likes to talk to me because I don’t do that to her.

Add to all this the fact that my Mother is having lots of trouble with her knees, and I feel like the fittest dog in the junkyard. And today, this dog has a lot of writing to do (thank heavens!) Just wanted to update the blog and really to ask everyone to keep the Empress in your thoughts. She’s a difficult old bird at times, but she is NEVER dull, and I’m actually quite fond of her.

We need to talk about Mom’s new little “hobby” – feeding birds on the ledge outside the kitchen window.

I know. I know. She’s just trying to give Blond Lady something nice to watch. And we’ve talked about squirrels before (if you missed that entry, you have to read it, because there’s red fox pee involved.)

But MOM, if you’re going to add a new screen to our Television Set on the World, do NOT yell at us for getting on the table. And seriously? Blond Lady doesn’t CARE when we walk around her breakfast plate.

And okay, FINE. I took a drink out of the glass while I was sitting there. I thought it was part of the refreshments for the show. Seriously, would it HURT you to pop some popcorn? (You can click on the pictures and see them bigger.)

For the most part, I just plunk down on the table and watch because that window ledge is very sub-standard. Not nearly wide enough for me and I’m a perfectly {cough} normal-sized cat. Andy, on the other hand is ON the case.

Can you believe his focus? And what form! Look at those ears. Like laser sights, bro. Of course, with typical Rat in a Cute Suit arrogance, the squirrel refused to acknowledge he was in the presence of greatness.

And spit out sunflower seed hulls! Oh My Cat! Between him and the red birds (we’re working on a picture of those), Mom’s got herself one fine mess out there. But, it’s all a big success in here. She’s added a seed bell dangling off a stick and now there’s a little pan of water she fills up every day. We like to see consistent improvement with the programming.

We’re really glad she’s doing all this, because in this hot weather, the anipals that live outside really need our help. Almost all of Texas is in extreme drought conditions and here in the city that awful temperature heat index is up in the 100s every day. (Mom says she was happier in the old days when the weather guy never told that number.)

Anyway, we thank the Great Cat every day for air conditioning, and believe you me, we know where all the vents are and have plotted out the air currents. As for this other? Would it hurt that dang squirrel to ACT a little impressed by the cat in the window?

If you missed it, here’s the link to today’s webcomic about the Songbirds.

Her new theme is, “It’s an invasion of my privacy.”

Hmm. Well. They’re next door to me. Three houses away from her. And so far the worst thing they’ve done is not put the pool furniture back in its “proper” place.

Basically, the ole gal is feeling better. Any time the Empress can get a mad on toward the neighbors she’s on the mend. And, she’s hacked. I can’t blame her.

At almost 90, a quack doctor put her through two months of tests, didn’t listen to her when she said she would like to try an antibiotic because she thought she had an intestinal infection, and then . . .

TA DA

Diagnosis. “Mrs. L., you have an intestinal infection. Here’s a $5 antibiotic. Have a nice life.” Needless to say, she’s getting a new doctor.

So, that’s one Little Old Lady. The other Little Old Lady, R., is in her usual, “It’s so hot I’m going to die” mode. I have digital thermometers all over this house. At most. On really sweltering days, it hits 75 degrees in my room.

The rest of the house, which is essentially a wind tunnel from the fans, is hovering between 72 and 73 degrees. And she’s dying? Please. The temperature heat index was 104 while I was running errands yesterday.

Have I mentioned lately how much I enjoy these little summers of ours?

And so I’m taking refuge in Steampunkish sci fi. I just discovered “Sanctuary” in a rare moment of channel flipping. It has all the plot elements I tend to love, and appeals to me rather after the fashion of the short-lived “Birds of Prey.”

Recently my chums MissMeliss and Fuzzy gifted me with the box set of the lone season of “Birds,” which I re-watched with great pleasure. It was an attempt to bring the comic books to life. Batgirl turned Oracle after being wounded by the Joker and confined to a wheelchair.

{There’s the vaguest possibility that what follows is spoiler-ish. Read at your own peril.}

There’s a clock tower and a lot of seriously cool tech. Well. “Sanctuary” has a cool chick who dated Jack the Ripper, is 157-years-old, and has a fabulous house full of tech and “monsters,” who, like Quasimodo, need sanctuary.

Both the writing and the concept are good. In the second half of the series premier, one of the characters tells a so-called “monster,” that we all need to feel safe. The “monster” has a defense mechanism triggered by his fear. A tentacle that sucks brains.

Okay. Maybe it’s just me. But there are times when I wouldn’t mind having a brain-sucking tentacle. Of course, the cerebellums of choice would likely give me indigestion. But it’s a thought.

Some time during a night of random dreams and some tossing and turning, it occurred to me that we all live in the cross currents of one another’s fears. Many years ago I watched a man calm a terrified horse.

It was during a parade, not the best circumstances for horses anyway. An engine backfired, the horse reared, pitched its rider, and would not let anyone approach it.

A man stepped out of the crowd. Just an ordinary man in jeans and a blue work shirt. He took off his hat and handed it to a woman before stepping into the street. He walked right up under the hooves of that rearing stallion and just stood there.

From my vantage point, I saw the horse’s eye roll and lock on the man. It seemed at eternity, but when the animal’s hooves came down, they struck pavement not flesh. In whatever bubble man and horse stood, there was no fear.

The man calmly reached out and put his hand on the horse’s head, which the animal buried in the human’s neck. And that was it. The whole thing was over in a crystalline moment of trust.

This was years before anyone ever used the term “horse whisperer,” but I’ve never forgotten that scene. And in the midst of the little eddies of chaos in my world that don’t warrant public description, I find myself thinking . . . whisper . . . whisper back at life and allow it to calm.

No, we’re not investigating handicap pool lifts, although with this crowd that would be the only way anyone other than the coons and possums would actually use the dang thing.

I finally get the Empress talked into tearing down the back fence, which is already falling down, and then Her Son the Lawyer gets her stirred up about pool liability.

Which then necessitated a “just build the side fences back to the neighbor’s fence and be done with it” conversation that took an hour.

When I was in the car with my California friend and her husband the other day, I was trying to describe how an odd exit off the access road worked. I said, “I need both hands to show you,” when my initial verbal attempt failed.

We stopped in the parking lot beside their pickup. I used both hands. They got my point instantly. JPJ said, “You did need both hands. When you said that I wondered what you meant.”

With the Empress? A spider doesn’t have enough limbs to get the concept across.

Le. Sigh.

This morning I awakened at 4:45 because Mike was working security at the PawPawty on Twitter at 5 a.m. (It’s a monthly charity party to raise money for local animal shelters, and just a great event.)

My Internet was dead. I have some vague recollection of having been awakened by an electrical blip last night, but my connection was still up because I saw all four lights. Not so much this morning.

The Samsung Galaxy will function as a mobile hot spot, but I’d never set it up before and I hadn’t had a cup of coffee. I really shouldn’t have been concerned. Three taps with my index finger and I’m back online at speeds equal to or better than the cable modem.

My data doesn’t throttle on the phone until I hit 2gb and I’m at 124mb of usage for the month. So for once, I don’t have to lose my damn mind because Charter can’t get it’s  . . . er . . . stuff . . . together. I am in love with this phone. Sigh.