I used to be one of those horrible people who would take rolls and rolls of film and never get them developed.

I would take the camera with me, and upon returning from my travels, would get out my spent rolls and put them in a Designated Spot and remember what was on the rolls. Well, I'd remember for a few years, because I wouldn't ever relocate them, I'd just dust off their little canisters occasionally and organize around them. I knew that the ones on the shelves in the bedroom above and to the right of the computer were from Cumberland Island in 1996, and the ones behind the computer were from New York in 1999. The ones in my Uncle Charles' (RIP) very heavy glass ashtray on the bookcase in the living room were from San Francisco in 1991.

Then I decided I should get a maid from time to time, because while I clean my floors for free, I suck at it. Ela is a very nice Polish woman, and after she cleans, you can eat out of that little spot where the tub and the floor and the wall meet. She polishes silver and cleans the panels in the doors. She also likes to, er, organize things. I can see where she would think, "hrrrmmm, a jillion little black plastic canisters and they all look the same..." I shamefully tossed them all in a shoebox. Now I don't even know where the shoebox is.

Then mish, my hero, started waging her campaign for me to get a digital camera. I agonized over my decision. I researched what's out there. I pestered my friends. I went to the store to look at actual photos from digital cameras. And on that fateful snowy day, I had Leanne (because she has AWD) take me to the Wolf Camera on 14th Street. The rest, as they say, is history, and through the miracle of modern telecommunications, you can now see what all the shouting's about in my little world.