I think I’m a few summers too numerous to call myself “basic”…and girl is probably a stretch at this age, too. But I don’t think I’m a ma’am most days and I certainly don’t feel like a lady…it’s my mouth, mainly.
I’m not really basic in the ways of an American young woman is defined, anyway. I’m basic in that I like simple things that everybody else in their right mind likes too: chocolate, yoga pants, puppies, candles. I’m TRULY basic in that I like coffee from the coffee pot here at the Plantation and not from the overpriced hurriedly attended wildly popular chain cafe. I’m basic in that I wear sweatshirts and if I remember to wear earrings, I’m accessorized. I’m basic in that I don’t play games and if I don’t like you, you probably knew it right off the bat. But yet here I am with my unruly hair and smart mouth and birthday from the end of the seventies writing on my blog.
ANYWAY, it feels a little snotty to be complaining about my blog but I really hate it.
I constantly feel pressured to write one, and I want to write more but I really don’t have time and since changing jobs I have found that I don’t have as much material. Our little jaunt to West Town the other day supplied plenty of fuel for the fire, I’ll tell you that. I should probably get out more. Except it made me a little suicidal. And homicidal. But other than that, lots of fruit for the pickin’. Or writin’, as the case may be.
So anyhoo, I was trying to upload a few old stories from my Facebook memories the other day so they’ll be copywrited and it gave me “generic error”. Y’all know I’m crazy, so there’s no need for me to tell you how I just kept hitting “publish” eight to twenty four times hoping it would fix itself. It never did and I sorta forgot about it.
Then, a couple of days ago, in my memories, I came across where I shared a blog post. I didn’t recognize it by the title, so I clicked on it to see what escapade I’d been involved in that day and got a blank page.
I figured it was a Facebook glitch, and, while irritating, didn’t give it another thought.
Today, I go to my website oh-so-conveniently shortcutted on my home screen so I can see if I’ve already shared a particular story. I knew what heading it would be under so that would be faster than scrolling through years of posts on my WordPress page.
My website was down.
Even though the page was white, I saw red.
I saw stars.
Because I didn’t even want to start a blog. I didn’t want to be all techie. I didn’t want one more thing to keep up with. I didn’t want to dread writing and resent having to post stories with cute pictures and helpful links.
I just wanted to write.
And that’s what I’ve been doing- I’ve not been worrying about how lucrative this page could perhaps be if I gave it a little more effort. I haven’t dwelt on how much money it cost to set up and annual fees and what a pain in the ass it was to become an Amazon Associate but have yet to benefit from a single sale, although I know Johnny and I have both bought through this site. I haven’t stewed over how Google never had the courtesy to even bother shooting me a rejection email or perhaps reach out to say I didn’t provide the correct information to host their ads.
But I’m a hopeless optimist and I thought if someone famous didn’t stumble across my sparkling posts, at least I could make enough off sales to pay for all the website costs. And, barring that, my work would be copywrited. Because that’s important. Not cool to be plagiarized. I’d probably cut someone for that. But anyway.
And while I have renewed all my certificates and securities and all the other bullshit my site is DOWN?!?!
Not just no but heeeeeeeeeeeecccck no.
So I login over to the good people at Bluehost, who have never failed to help me. (WordPress, on the other hand, can suck it). Immediately, someone at the help desk logs in to chat. She asks me to verify the last 4 characters of my passcode.
I plug in a common one.
She politely informs me that it is incorrect and to recheck.
So I do, and she’s right.
I say she’s a she, because her name was Arabic/ Egyptian/ otherwise unpronounceable for a redneck like me and I decided she was a she, okay?
She has me fixed in less than ten minutes. Some problem with the PCP verification update.
I get lots of emails that I used to read when I thought they contained pertinent information about how my account has upgraded, no action was needed on my part, blah blah blah.
Obviously that is not the case. How long had this been down? At least a week, that I knew of. How long would it have gone on? Was everybody who had Bluehost suffering the same botheration? (Yes, that’s a real word and I like it a lot).
So what about if this was my business? What if I was out backpacking and my website was so popular and it just ran itself so I could get out in the wilderness away from all the crazies and then it just crashes and nobody can get ahold of me because I’m communing with the sun and trees? And I lose thousands of dollars? What about that?
And that’s why, ladies and gentlemen, I’ll never be a successful blogger. I don’t want all these problems. I just want to write stories and get sympathy because while you may not have ever been in this exact situation, you’ve been in something similar and while you don’t feel the need to whine to all your friends about it, you can depend on me to pull some equally ridiculous stunt and blab it all over.
I see you.
So drink your Starbucks and burrow down behind your cashmere scarf and oversized Jackie-O sunglasses and read my blog. And laugh, because you know it’s true. And be glad I’m not too proud or too lazy to tell it like it is, all day every day.
Freaking blog. Freaking millenials that can navigate all this interwebs business so effortlessly.
If someone, or a group of someones, wants to buy me a typewriter and copy machine and stamps we can do a weekly post via snail mail.
Now there’s a concept I can get on board with. #weretakingitbacktotheoldschoolcauseimanoldfoolwhossocool