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Posts tagged ‘just venting’

Nov 26

29 Comments

Stick a Fork in Me. I’m Done.

Regular readers, please pardon the brief post today. It’s early to bed for me, and I just don’t have a post in me.

Or, maybe I do.

I have to put this somewhere, so I’m going to put it here. I know this blog was originally founded to not say this word, but I NEED to say it……I HATE GOOGLE. I HATE FACEBOOK. I HATE WHAT THEIR RECENT CHANGES HAVE DONE TO MY BLOG READERSHIP.

It is demoralizing to work as hard as I have on a blog for as long as I have, only to watch my page views fall by half in a three week period. Facebook making everyone pay to play, combined with Google’s now deciding to change their algorithms, has well-and-truly screwed me.

And, anyone wanting to make a comment about how Facebook and Google own their platforms and can make their own rules can shove it.

Happy, happy Monday.

Nov 15

62 Comments

The Trouble With Siri

Oh, the joys of Siri. I couldn’t WAIT to meet her. For months and months and months, I steamed with envy of my friends’ Siris. I wanted my own know-it-all, a go-to girl I could call upon at any time, for any reason.

Imagine my surprise when I asked Siri a very basic question yesterday. It is a key to the success of our whole relationship.

 

Turns out, Siri doesn’t know squat.

 

Nov 14

32 Comments

Doing What I Don’t Want To Do

Right now, life for me is a series of wait-and-see. Hurry-up-and-stop. Sit on my hands to keep from chewing my nails.

You get the idea.

My novel-in-progress is out with my A readers, and I’m at loose ends. It’s hard to give up a child for two weeks without wondering how she’s faring. Especially when one knows that child is far from perfect. I still have at least one more revision before giving it to my editor in January, but new eyes help my eyes work better.

So, I’ve spent this week doing all sorts of things I put off. Because the things I procrastinate tend to have to do with technology, I have been on a slow descent into hell. A sample, and you may laugh AT me, because there’s no laughing WITH me:

  1. Updating my contacts. Now, this may sound like an easy project, but this is ME. I never, ever, EVER update my contacts. EVER. Gmail saves email addresses and lets me just enter the first few characters for a reason, right? Thousands upon thousands of email addresses, and only a milli-fraction assigned to a contact.
  2. Aaaaaaaaand, since I’m already screaming, I decided to merge all of my ancillary contacts from other networks. I’m tired of services like Facebook changing the rules on me, and I want to have a master contact list that I control. At least, I THINK I still want that. I’m only about a tenth of the way through my friend list. By the time I’m done, I may have transmogrified into a volcanic eruption.
  3. But hey, I already have hundreds and hundreds of pretty contacts.
  4. AND I REALLY DON’T GIVE A #%$^#&@*#&$%^ ABOUT THAT.
  5. But, I know I should…….
  6. So, I decided to pile it on even thicker and upgraded my iPhone this week. I even read the freaking instruction manual word-for-word before I turned the thing on…….AND IT ARRIVED WITHOUT A FREAKING SIM CARD INSTALLED.
  7. While I was cursing Verizon and Apple and all tech people period, MTM suggested that, since I was plugging my iPhone in for the first time in two years, I might as well upload my thousands of photos to Flickr. If anyone wants to see how that’s going, click here.

Will anyone declare it Sippy Time? Is it Five O’Clock somewhere? Have I finally learned my lesson that keeping up with this stuff a little at a time beats days-long bouts of torture??????

Oct 24

39 Comments

To Covet An Erection

I admit it. Of all the commandments, the sin of coveting is at the top of my list. Multiple times a day, I want something that’s not mine. I look up, and there it is, right in front of me.

I’m not talking about the overblown wilds of social media. It offers all sorts of alternative lifestyles, fantasies, things I can’t afford to ever, EVER do or have.

My object of wanton want dangles above me. I see it every morning when I drag my lazy carcass out of bed earlier than I would like. I admire its lines every time I see it. Sometimes I even blow it a kiss.

Or several.

It’s an oversized photo of the Eiffel Tower, stretched on canvas. It belongs to my friend and landlord Kristin. AND I WANT IT.

Which is bizarre.

I don’t even like the Eiffel Tower. When I went to Paris, I skipped it. It always loomed there, on the skyline. Beckoning.

But, pastry and chocolate chaud and weird shoes and white shirts and the lunacy that I could learn to wear a scarf if only I studied enough Parisian women in the Tuileries: those things beckoned more. I waved to the tower from the train on the way into the city, miniature on the skyline. I can’t remember if I gave it a gesture of goodbye.

I am convinced that my lack of appreciation for the tower in real life is the cause of my covetous bile. This lovely image that I live with, I see it in my sleep. I now cannot imagine life without it.

And, it does not belong to me.

Oct 23

42 Comments

He Banged It

MTM banged it. Totally. I asked him what my repost should be, and he banged it. His head. On the desk. Hard enough to cause a twinge of migraine over my left eye.

Maybe that’s because we spent a large portion of the evening discussing health issues.

He had a stress test on Monday. Because he’s approaching ‘that age’, the one where his father had multiple heart bypass surgery. It wasn’t having a medical test when he has no sign of ill health that caused our discussion. I’m glad to know that he has a less-than-15% chance of having a heart attack in the next five years.

No.

It was spawned by a mindless comment by me. I lay in bed yesterday morning, staring at the concrete ceiling, after a whole night of worry-induced wakefulness over my lack of responsible contribution to our household, and I opened my big, fat trap before I was fully awake.

MTM: I can’t button these cuffs. Maybe that means I’m getting arthritis.

Me: You are a total, utter hypochondriac.

Yeah. Stellar start to a Monday.

Fast-forward to dinner, where I was late because I had been out with my editor, lingered hours without calling, and generated no net financial contribution to our household for the day (though I did edit 3,500 words of my novel-in-progress). MTM gazed at me across the candlelit dinner he prepared, and cycled back to dawn.

MTM: Do you REALLY think I’m a hypochondriac?

I wanted to pick up my steak knife and stab myself in the mouth. Instead, I committed a worse foul than spewing blood at the table.

Me: Of COURSE not. You want to hear hypochondria? I am going to die of congestive heart failure, because BOTH of my grandmothers did, and I think about it EVERY DAY. I run into the table because I can’t see and am convinced that I have MS like my aunt, and I’ll end up stashed away in a nursing home, a burden to you. This is multiplied by the fact that I make no money, because all I am doing is making words that I hope somebody, somewhere, will pay to read if I ever manage to find someone who will make them available.

MTM: Wow. If I said we need more wine, would that make me an alcoholic?

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