It’s 10 AM. I’ve already spilled a bowl full of birdie kibble upstairs. Came down to deal with the foster birds, tripped and upended some nasty looking water on the floor. I wrote a long e-mail only to be disconnected by my computer or my e-mail provider before I hit the send button.I hope this is not a sign of things to come today. I think I’ll go get a latte and try to calm down and contemplate life on a different plane...say, one headed for England.
Well, here’s an unexpected benefit to my website. I get lots of comments from people that are just fun to read...even if some of them are friends who are even weirder than I am....and you know who I’m talking about, Jim.
So I have reluctantly been dragged into the last frontier on the Internet. At least, this is the last frontier for me. If I go any further, I’m pretty sure my head will explode. Either that, or I’ll have to deliberately forget all the lines of “The Raven” that I so painstakingly memorized in my dorky youth in order to make room for more codes and passwords and access numbers and online names.
The good news, of course, is that I can now never forget my great-grandmother’s maiden name because if I do I will forever be locked out of some account I have online that requires that information should I forget my password. Why anyone thinks I’d forget the password but remember that name is beyond me.
All these thoughts come crashing in because I have recently crossed the final border into total geekdom and, with the very patient help of a wonderful lady name Sonya Senkowsky, created my own website.
I did it for a variety of reasons. I thought it might be good advertising for my business, which I really, really would like to take from a totally non-profit venture into something that can actually support my latte habit. I also thought it was the wave of the future and I might as well catch it now since I’m way too old to be chasing it later.
But it’s not easy to enter this world of codes and commands. It’s one thing to make a mistake on my computer while working on a word document in the privacy of my home and suddenly send three weeks worth of effort into the ether by the accidental stroking of one wrong key. That’s at least a private matter. But when you’re working on a website and do it, the whole connected world can see your dumb mistake.
Every time I hit the wrong key and accidentally post half a headline when all I meant to do was hit the space button, I imagine people all over the world pointing at my website and laughing. I imagine they call their friends and say things like, “You can’t believe what that dumb broad in Alaska did this time. Hurry up. Check it out before she gets help from someone who knows what they’re doing and cleans up the mistake.”
It’s the difference between spilling food down your shirt in the privacy of your own home and doing it at a five star restaurant where you know all the waiters are in the back snickering at your ineptitude.
I guess when I’m not being hysterical, I am aware that with all the information available on the Internet today, and with the millions upon millions of websites to visit, the likelihood that my mistake is drawing worldwide derision is pretty slim if not non-existent. And, let’s face it, an Internet that still contains stories about women blowing up at gas stations because of sparks caused by their pantyhose rubbing the car seat is not a forum in which one should go looking for high standards in postings.
Part of my website is a blog, which is apparently nothing more than an online diary. When I think back to my youth and the agonies I went through to keep my diary hidden from my parents, my brother and anyone else I thought might find it, I realize that the Internet has changed even my definition of privacy. And I am, according to most standards, a pretty private person. Or maybe the word my friends use is hermit. Is that the same thing?
At any rate, I find an odd sense of relief each morning when I go to my site and post my latest thoughts. It’s as though emptying them out of my head on to the Internet has opened up space in my brain for other things. Instead of wondering why I had that thought and what it meant, I just post it on my website and wait for people’s comments to explain to me what it really means. It saves me a lot of psychic energy and time that can better be spent trying to beat the odds at Pong.
I am very aware that most of the information on the Internet is questionable at best. And many, many, many blogs are as ugly as the word seems to imply. But I like to think mine is different. I like to think that mine enlightens and amuses. Of course, when I’ve done one of my particularly stupid keystrokes and sent whole postings into orbit around the dark side of the moon, I prefer to comfort myself with the thought that no one is paying attention anyway.
Maybe, in the end, this whole Internet craze will go the way of the hulahoop and I can go back to memorizing the rest of “The Raven”. One can only hope.
I have become my father. I found myself sitting at the computer planning meals almost a month in advance with one of my lunch buddies. I can picture my father sitting in the living room after dinner asking my mother what she wanted for dinner the next night and her look of exasperation at the idea that she already needed to be planning the next meal when the one she just ate had not yet been digested.
Need I really say more. My waist, what little of it I can still find, contiues to rise like an old man’s pants. My pants, on the other hand, are designed to stop somewhere around where my hips used to be before they decided to migrate south towards my knees.
I now know why my grandmother wore one rather shapeless black dress from her widowhood till she died. It was just easier. And the support knee highs didn’t show. And she never had to worry that when she raised her arms, her butt crack would show at a time when few, including her, wanted to see it.
This is Frick and Frack, two of my foster birds. They are currently shredding an annoying catalog that is but one of many that comes in the mail all the time. It’s how they earn their kibble around here. They take out my frustration for me on how many trees die so that I can receive catalogs I don’t want that sell items I don’t need at prices I refuse to pay plus shipping which is astronomical because no one believes Alaska is not on the dark side of the moon.
Are you like me? Are you glad the Olympics have ended? I was absolutely exhausted from all that armchair athletics I was doing. I’ll need at least two weeks of sleep to catch my breath before I can even think of starting to prepare for the summer Olympics in two years.
Despite the pain it has taken to get in even relatively good shape, and despite the fact that exercising will never rank higher than number 153 on my list of favorite things to do, I must admit that I am periodically confronted with proof positive that it works. A few years ago, when I was much heavier and not in very good shape, I fell on the ice and ended up in an emergency room with the kinds of bumps, bruises and contusions that are very painful but not visible enough to get you a whole lot of sympathy. Yesterday I slipped on the ice again. Only this time, I was much thinner and had spent two years faithfully working out at Curves. I was able to control the fall, somewhat cushion and slow it down, and ended up with nothing more than a sore knee and wrenched butt. No need for an ER this time. So I guess it does help to be in shape. Damn! It was so much more fun to be a couch potato.
Does the government have a room somewhere in a bland ugly building in Maryland where they store people who write the language used for government grants so that they don’t accidentally leak into the gene pool? Inquiring minds want to know.
In my humble opinion, when you have to walk on ice for your daily consitutional, and you take along an old dog who slips and slides and has to be carried to the few non-icy spots, god should let each step count twice so you can finish your walk quickly and get to safety before you break your keister. And I don’t even know what a kiester is...or how to spell it.
Did you ever have one of those days where you wake up and there are just too many words in the world and they are all in your mind whirling madly? Am I the only one?
The book excerpt has been found. The pages are as god meant them to be. All is well in my world. And yet the Luddite in me still wishes for a time when stamps were a lot more important than they are today. I mean, how badly could you screw that up? Put the wrong amount on the letter? Paste the stamp on upside down? Forget to lick the envelope shut?
This is my payback for thinking I can actually use one of these infernal machines. I tried to change the excerpt available in the book section and now there is nothing there. Puff. All gone. Disappeared into the ether. As though it never existed. And I once again ask myself, what the hell was the problem with just writing letters in the first place.
It’s one of those silly discussions that periodically convulse the world of competitive figure skating. At the last Olympics, it was all about the judging and the numbers and the fact that kings and queens were crowned long before the competition actually took place.
I should probably only ever take my blood pressure after my morning at Bird TLC. I realized today that whenever I leave there, I’m smiling. Who smiles after being so intimate with rotting fish and eagle poop? And yet, it brings me joy.