Today, I am Dumb Bunny. Which is better than yesterday when I was Angry Bunny...probably because I slathered on my hormone cream later than usual. Bad idea.
I know I'm going to get a lesson (again) on how to successfully upload an image to my blog page that also posts to my Facebook
grrr I hate you Facebook page. I vowed to always have a featured image for some insane I-think-people-might-be-entertained-by-it reason. I have no idea idea if anyone is entertained or not. It's just a thing I do. Like drinking milk directly from the carton. (note to visitors who aren't lactose intolerant and may choose to pour themselves a tall one from my 'fridge)
I know there's something I have to push or click or activate while standing on my head reciting The Declaration of Independence, but for the life of me, I can't remember what in the Sam Hill it is. This is not surprising. I haven't actually visited my own blog since before the name Trump was seared into our nation's collective psyche with a red hot poker. That's a long, long time ago so it's no wonder I don't recognize the place.
But it IS my place for crying' out loud and things should not change. Ever. I don't need no stinkin' upgrades! No cockamamie optimization bells and whistles! Just give me a stone table and a fucking chisel and I'll be right as rain!
Why do I suddenly feel an affinity to whoever wrote Who Moved My Cheese?
So, to the 10s of people who read my blog, I will say I'm sorry....my bad....lo siento...as you come face to face with....nothing. [big sigh]
Yet another cruel testament to my digital inadequacy.
[In an uncharacteristic burst of misguided enthusiasm, writer becomes determined to find the best goddamn cat video ever created and....wait for it!!! PASTE it into her next blog post as a featured video!! If there is such a thing as a featured video.]
It's no secret I have a love/hate thing going on with Facebook. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. Shut my snarky pie-hole and accept the fact that mundane look-at-this-awesome-latte-I-just-had posts and cat videos are permanent threads in the fabric of our lives. Just like cotton.
So...as I was innocently scrolling through posts from the 12 friends I have, I saw one about horoscopes. Aforementioned "friend" who posted it will remain nameless but viewing cat videos has made me curious and curiosity killed me, or at least put me on the threshold of tragedy after I clicked on the link.
Hmmm...not so bad! Aries are indeed great kissers! Thanks, horoscope writer!
And then came the punch line. "Two years of bad luck if you don't forward this post".
P.S. Hey, man. I'm just saving my own ass here. I suggest you don't click. But...Aries ARE good kissers and so are Taurus and Aquarius but nobody compares to Cancer who are, apparently, the most amazing at it. What more do you need to know?
Not to play the crybaby here, but I’ve spent a lot of time in hospital waiting areas. It is less than pleasant for obvious reasons but I’m pretty stoic. My stiff upper lip can make the average Brit look like a blubbering amateur.
I have a routine. It goes something like this:
Put on game face. I have a killer game face. I can make a linebacker cry...I shit you negative.
Gather all my devices, paperwork, shit I gotta finish up on the fly. Everything I can stuff into my rolling office.
Pep talk for the respective patient as long as he/she isn’t getting an I.V. (see #3 below for a more detailed explanation)
Find a quiet spot where no one can bother me or see my game face crack whereby giving aforementioned linebacker a chance to can call me a sissy. Preferably, the quiet spot has electricity to keep my devices on life support.
Oh, wait. I forgot. There are no quiet spots in a patient waiting area.
Here are a few useful facts to know if you’re planning a fun family gathering at your local medical facility:
The Jerry Springer Show will be playing on a television that's beyond the arm's reach of a short girl and a nowhere-to-be-found remote control.
People who either a) insist on using speaker phone or b) people who have no idea they’re on speaker phone.
And then...that well-meaning volunteer who approaches you about giving blood. Don’t get me wrong! I’m a blood-donor advocate and I’d glad give if I didn’t faint dead away at the very thought of it. It’s the achilles heel that can put a gnarly fever blister on my stiff upper lip. It's the only thing that can bring me to my knees. That...and someone getting an I.V.
And lastly, that not-so-well-meaning, oblivious individual who insists on humming, singing, or playing YouTube videos on his/her cell phone at a decibel level considered dangerous by OSHA who then follows you as you flee toward a more tranquil corner.
OBLIVIOUS INDIVIDUAL: “Say, it’s a lot quieter over here, isn’t it? I think you’re on to somethin’. You ever see the video of the singin’ cats from Uzbekistan? They’re a hoot! Here, let me turn it up for ya.”
Um...no, thank you. I have an appointment to give blood.
I try not to think about how old I am. The thought of aging just pisses me off. But sometimes, it's thrown in my face like a shaving cream pie of reality.
I made a plane reservation the other day. I don't remember where I was going. I just remember putting in my birthday: month, day, no prob. Then…year. I was right-hooked upside the melon as only a drop-down menu of dates can deliver. I paged down and down and down some more as my sinking heart begged for mercy. Jesus Christ on a cracker. Really? Who thought of this soul-crushing process disguised as convenience? Why not just give me the fucking blank space so I can type in my four benign little numbers that remind me of nothing? Would that be so hard? Instead, I have to see the seemingly endless parade of decades that have passed before. To you geniuses, I say this...
Dear Soul-Crushing ,Tech-Nerds,
Take a clue from the kind folks who eradicated the term "bifocals" with a vaccine called "progressives". There is no Age Related Stigma attached to glasses called progressives. See the marketing genius there? I want to kiss those guys. I want to have their babies if only I still had a uterus. But you? You're cruel and insensitive. One day, you, too, will be making a plane reservation on-line. And it will hit you as it hit me. And you will regret the folly of your youth. The callous disregard for the self-esteem of others. Your day will come, tech-nerds Oh, yes. Your day will come.
Not to be confused with "Twitter me, stupid!"
I don't know if you can Twitter somebody but if you can, it sounds like something I might like. Maybe I'll invent my very own form of sexual pleasure called twittering and tweet it (?) like this: #ThingsAnaisNinWouldProbablyLoveToKnowIfSheWereStillAlive
(For some reason…I felt compelled to put a .com at the end of that hash-tagged-whatever, the same way I want to say Amen at the end of The Pledge of Allegiance.)
I don't know where all those pound sign creations end up but it must be in some kind of Bermuda Triangle For Hashtags. Someday they'll all be found alongside an aircraft carrier and their bewildered, ageless crew asking "What the Sam Hill are all these pound signs doing hanging off the sides of our beloved USS Cyclops and what the hell do you mean Woodrow Wilson ain't president no more?"
But what I really want to know is this: will that hashtag I just created automatically go to The Hashtag Triangle just because I typed it and posted this blog? Or do I have to pass GO on my Twitter account that I don't know how to sign into and collect $200, first?
If you know, please send me a "@" with a "#" followed by a smoke signal, a few Morse code clicks and maybe a voice message on that tin can and string device you probably have in your box of childhood memories.
But only if you're staring down the business end of the mid-life shotgun.
A woman's self-esteem, as it relates to her hair, cannot be understated. And when things go wrong, it's akin to being stripped naked and paraded through a shopping mall on the eve of an unfortunately overdue Brazilian. (Thanks, Sandman, for bringing me that horrifying dream, you sick fuck!)
A hair disaster can bring on nothing short of social paranoia. The Aggrieved Unfortunate is convinced everyone is staring at her. (Writer speaking in the third person to protect her nearly pulverized psyche) Even if they don't know her and therefore couldn't possibly know what her hair looked like pre Hair Apocalypse, she thinks they're staring.
She feels it.
She cinches her hoodie tight around her fried noggin, her posture reduced to the slump of the publicly humiliated.
Not even her friends recognize her as she reveals the source of her shame. Their greetings, once warm and comforting, have been replaced with dismayed half-smiles of "Holy mother of God, what has she done?" and ever so slight recoils of disgust... as if getting too close might infect them with her hair-brained disease. She gives them a cryptic warning. "Don't bother with the hand sanitizer. It's airborne. I caught if from breathing in some cockamamie idea I got from a hairstyle magazine that made me believe I wanted to look like Miley Cyrus."
They stare a little harder.
"Yeah. Yeah. I know. If Andy Warhol and Tilda Swinton had a love child, it would have this hair color. I'm going to get it fixed on Saturday."
And Saturday comes….
Alas, the fixing has failed.
And it's worse than she could have imagined. Any trace of what remained of her erased…washed away in a diabolical brew of chemical color not found in nature or otherwise.
"Now you look Irish," one helpful friend blurts out.
"It's just not you," another offers, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. (from a safe distance, of course)
"Then who the hell am I," Andy-Tilda The Irishwoman cries. "Who? Who? Who??!!"
And thus begins the slow, agonizing process of rebuilding the woman she once recognized in the mirror as Herself. She's come to terms with it now. Every day a little better. Every therapy session one step closer to regaining the self-esteem she so cavalierly tossed away that fateful day.
Oh, what a price we pay for our mistakes, my sisters. Oh, what a price.
Maybe it's genetic. I have no idea. Should I be more self aware of this? Probably. Fact is, Google has officially called me out on it. It's slightly creepy when a non-human entity points out a human characteristic. Okay, so it's not a human characteristic that's considered attractive but still, it's unsettling. I laughed out loud but it was one of those laughs that was part ha-ha, part I-don't-know-what-else-to-do-because-I'm-uncomfortable kind of laughs.
Here's Google's response to one of my blog post titles:
Warning: Title display in Google is limited to a fixed width, yours is too long.
I'm giving the shitty sentence structure a pass. Namely, because I'm completely fascinated by how this non-human "voice" manages to sound so beautifully, snarkily human.
I'm wondering which Google team member insisted on taking off "dumb shit" at the end of that warning?
Just to be clear, I know "snarkily" is not a word. I'm sure Google will somehow find a way to point that out.
P.S Rudimentary, art-house doodle is a self-portrait. And yeah, that's sorta the color of my hair right now.
Just when I thought I had it all figured out, I run into this… [insert emoji of exasperated smiley face here]
Searching for a sign that tells me which way to go. Yet to find one. At this point, I'd settle for a fortune cookie with a perky, inspirational prediction about attaining worldwide success or how I'm loved by people who don't even know me based on the sterling personality that precedes me.
What next? A sign that says Skip the Dresses. You're a Boy??
Damn you, auto correct!
I'm starting to keep a running record of all the crazy shit that's written on my behalf by that absurd algorithm, or whatever the hell you call it. For the love of Pete, I don't even know what an algorithm is! But it sounded like a word that fit. So there.
Algorithm. Yep. It fits.
I scurried off to dictionary.com so I could look up the definition, lest I sound like a complete idiot. There were numerous descriptions. Here's the one that fit the best:
A finite set of unambiguous instructions performed in a prescribed sequence to achieve a goal, especially a mathematical rule or procedure used to compute a desired result. Algorithms are the basis for most computer programming.
Hmmm… "used to compute a desired result."
Frog ether was not the desired result of my text. Which leads me to this…..
How can there can be an auto correct of specific words, but not an auto correct that auto corrects all the shit sentences auto correct creates from correctly spelled words that should never be put next to each other? Yeah, I know. That's a ridiculously long sentence, but I'm totally serious about this auto-sentence-correcting thing-y. Does it exist?
It should. Because I'd love it if that frog text got corrected to what I was really trying to say.
"Wire friending broth erthy"
Sheesh! What does a girl have to do to get a little clarity around here?
I'm a fledgling technology consumer.
According to Merriam-Webster, fledgling can either mean a young bird who has just fledged (what?) or a person or organization that is immature, inexperienced, or underdeveloped.
I'm neither immature nor an organization but I am definitely inexperienced and underdeveloped when it comes to things referred to as devices and all the shit you have to learn to operate them.
Don't get me wrong. I loves me my devices, y'all. I just don't know how to make them work at their full potential and beating them on rocks to bring about aforementioned potential just doesn't work. Trust me on this.
Despite the fact that my self-esteem has been put through a virtual wood-chipper for being completely un-trainable, I put on a happy face and just keep on truckin'. What's my choice?
So imagine my sheer bliss when I discovered - on my own, mind you - how to convert a pdf script back into Final Draft format. This was after fretting for days and days that I'd have to type an accidentally-deleted-because-I'm-an-idiot version of a script word for word from a pdf file.
I had put out one last call for help. One puny, fading sonar beep of a plea.
"Help me Google-wan-Kenobi! You're my only hope!"
And Google brought forth a screenwriter angel. And he was called John August.
And he carried with him a mighty tool. And that tool bore the name….Highland
And Highland was my redeemer. It restoreth my soul and my tattered self-esteem.
Highland! Highland! I shall trumpet your wonders throughout the kingdoms of cyber-space, bear witness through the power of my own voice and …...
Okay, okay! I'll cut the biblical melodrama but I'm here to tell you, this Highland App is fucking MA-JIK. Convert your pdfs back into Final Draft files in two shakes of a lamb's tail. You don't even need opposable thumbs to do it! Just a coupla pointer fingers and you're good to go. It's that simple.
One last little discovery I just have to share! I ran across the most fascinating circular contraption. It's sometimes made of rubber, sometimes metal and it facilitates movement. It's called the wheel.