I have enough problems in my life that are eventually going to make my head explode, just like that poor Brett Michaels' and his over-processed blonde mane. Namely, dumbass dogs who recently have found it to be super neat to dart into the alligator-infested lake behind our house, tearing at top speed like hairy racehorses until the water is up to their puny-brained heads as I run screaming behind them flinging out an unlimited supply of expletives.
Once they are in, only their heads visible, looking like decapitated, pouffy-haired bobble dolls, they become instantly stuck in the stinky muck of the lakebed and they writhe about in a stupid, stuck panic. I am then forced to wade into this habitat of water moccasins and gators and yank those half-witted crapheads out of the murky water. Only. Only. To have them race right back in once I spend a backbreaking eternity washing the muck out of their wooly coats.
And I ask you, Blogger—child of Google—can dogs be mentally challenged? Because if they can, these two need to take the shortest bus possible to Doggy School.
And then there's the fact that my daughters have been swiping my conditioner. I'll be taking a shower and I reach for my blondy blonde conditioner that makes my hair feel like silk and I fumble about and get nothing. And I stand there with unconditioned hair, wet, angry and helpless to the inevitable bad hair day to follow.
And that, mister, is a tragedy.
But, I digress. I really just wanted you to give a bird's eye view of the farcical bullcrap that rules my life.
So, what I'm trying to say Blogger is, I don't need you adding to my woes.
You've been f***king with me for awhile now and I've been trying to be all good sporty about it, because I can take the joke-being-on-me better than anyone. (I have 3 older brothers and so I am a professional when it comes to being punked.)
They're coming for me, here, holsters in place. The stuff of my toddler life.
But, now, now you're messing with my comments and that, Blogger, is where I draw the sweet-girl line. That Blogger, is where my badass girl comes out to play.
Now that is BADASS!
It all began with my feed. I use Feedburner which is also a child of Google.
And I'm starting to think, is there anything Google doesn't own?
Rumor has it that Steve Jobs has a Google chip implanted in his brain.
Anywhoo, my feed got all out of whack and I earnestly tried to fix it.
Because when you've got whacked out feed, you've got jack. Not nobody, not nothin' knows you're alive because, duh, they ain't getting your feed.
So, I went over to Feedburner and discovered the problems and guess what Feedburner said about my problems? They said my problems were solvable, but they required some expert technological skills.
And the techie geeks living in my computer were bent over in a laughter so convulsing, they could have used oxygen masks.
So, I tried to make sense of the super complicated techie instructions that said things like, "Ram the HTML with the A, E, I, O and U and douche the configuration of the 3rd degree burns with all other sources. Aaaaand, ready, GO!"
So, I cried.
And then I went to the Help Forum at Feedburner.
And you'll never guess what? Feedburner has the same helpless Help Forum as you do, Blogger.
And yes, I'm saying exactly what you think I'm saying. I'm saying, you SUCK at being helpful. You're no boy scout, Blogger. That's for sure.
You've got all these poor bloggers wandering about your desert forums, posting questions, pleading, "Is anyone out there. Please, if there is a God, can you help me!"
And that's it.
A million cries for help met with silence. And that's Just. Like. You. Freakin. Blogger.
And if you do get help from one of those surly tech people in the forum, the answer goes something like this,
"Activate the URL code of 4752x7ef111rz and smush all your HTML into cursive by enabling the Buddha . . . Duh." And then, it's always followed by a, "Dumbass."
So, Blogger, I don't mean to be tacky or anything, but aren't you making a freak load amount of money off of us bloggers little writing backs? Can't you squeak open those tight pockets for some real help for our blogger tribe? Like, I don't know. Maybe, hire real people. You can call. On the phone? And if you do take my suggestion, whatever you do, do NOT hire the techie information folk from GoDaddy.com.
Those folks are some assbags, there. I actually had a dude there whoosh air aggressively through his nostrils over the phone at me and mutter, "Seriously? Ihad to get this phone call?"
But, I got him back when I met a bigwig from GoDaddy.com in San Francisco and I told him all about that mean assbag named DAVID. So, DAVID, even though I don't know your last name, how many Davids can there be working the help lines? Fear for your life, dude.
Hey Blogger, here's a thought. Stop living your life of champagne wishes and caviar dreams. Stop pouring every red cent of your gazillion dollars into the Google workplace, the happiest place on earth.
Throw a few paltry dollars into some real help for my desert wandering friends.
Blogger, I'm begging you, let my bloggers go!
So, that's my first gripe.
Now Blogger, since you've discovered I wasn't as weak-hearted as you thought and I went out and did a Rocky number on my feedburner, you decided to jack me up all over again.
This week I've been having a hell of a time commenting on other people's blogs. I leave a witty comment
and I check my grammar and spelling and I go hit the comment button and wham, ERROR. And then guess what, Blogger? My witty comment? Gone. Gone into the black hole of the Internet. And then I have to comment again. But, that witty comment is gone out of the other black hole that is now my brain because I've had 3 children and with each of those children a large portion of my brain matter was sucked away during breast feeding.
I no longer have retentive skills nor, as I found out last weekend, can I limbo as nimbly as I once used to.
So, I found that rather annoying.
But, then came the BIG problem and I mean BIG.
You decided to go and jack with my precious, precious commenter's comments.
Man Blogger, you sure do know how to hit below the belt.
All bloggers feel the same way about comments. They are like shiny little diamonds all a-glistening, filling you with joy, just at the sight of them.
There is no better feeling than a blog post that creates a plethora of comments.
Comments are better than drugs.
They're endorphins in a batch of words.
They're shiny, red stilettos that slide perfectly onto your feet.
They're Johnny Depp at your doorstep with a bottle of fine wine and that smile.
They're jeans that make your butt curve into a perfect little apple.
They're Oprah calling you to be her new best friend cause she's kicked Gail to the curb.
Comments are the nirvana of the blogworld.
I hear your evil snicker, Blogger.
Don't think I'm not on to you.
Here's what's happening:
I go to my Dashboard page and there is that little beckoning siren call stating, 47 comments need moderation.
And I'm all, "The diamonds! Oh, the diamonds!" And with trembling hands, I click on the comments and you'll never guess what, Blogger? Or maybe you can. Because, you know you're a bitch and you just want to f***k with me.
No unmoderated comments found.
In the meantime, I've got beautiful, beautiful commenters emailing me, saying, "Yo. Didn't you like my comment? Why you gotta censor me?"(My commenters don't really talk like gang members. I am just taking literary license there.)
And I'm writing them back, "Wha? No. I love you! Please, please comment."
You aren't playing nice, Blogger.
Every day there's 30 comments here, 40 there and I click and, poof, they disappear.
Some of them are getting through. The penis enhancement comments are most certainly getting through. But the good ones, not so much.
These disappearing comments inhabit my dreams, Blogger.
What if Stephen Hawking is trying to contact me to tell me exactly where those aliens live and what their intentions are because he knows he is scaring the ever loving snot out of me with his talk of dangerous aliens floating around space in alien ships?
Because I don't have enough to worry about. Now I've got alien invasions occupying my fear-mongering brain. Thanks, Stephen.
Or what if Caesar Millan is sending me comments saying, "Give me your address. Tampon-eating dogs should not be handled by laypersons. I will be right over."
What if I am living in dog hell unnecessarily?
What if one of those comments is from that mean girl who tortured me unmercifully through my angst-filled middle school years? What if she sent me a comment saying, "Hey, it's me Mean Girl. Sorry for everything I put you through. Sorry for taunting you and your skinniness. Sorry for all the mean notes I passed around the class calling you Bony Joanie. Sorry for making fun of your klutziness in PE class. And I'm really sorry for calling you out in front of the whole class for not having enough boobs to wear a training bra yet, while the rest of us 7th grade ladies were down with the bras. I'm really sorry now because you look like you're happy and I'm not because my curves only grew wider and now I sit here in a motorized scooter, too obese for my legs to hold me up. How's that skinny metabolism working out for you?"
I am going to be really bummed if I missed that one, Blogger.
And what if Jennifer Weiner is one of those 47 comments?
And what if that hypnotist sent me a comment saying, "I can hypnotize you so that your hubby's smacky ways won't send you over the edge. Because, I know you've spent 23 years asking politely, then begging, then screaming for him to stop the F***KING SMACKING! This is your only alternative. Call me."
And what if one of these days I've had one food chewing smack too many and I end up stabbing My Hubby with his steak knife?
That blood, Blogger, will be on your hands.
Or what if Betty White commented, saying, "Hey, I hear you became a fan of me on Facebook and I hear you don't have any more Grandmas left. And if you like, I can be your Grandma and we can drink vodka martinis together and tell dirty jokes and troll for dudes and do just all the other typical grandmotherly and granddaughterly things together."
Or what if a plastic surgeon commented, offering me that full body lift I want to have before my class reunion? What if his only stipulation is I post pics of myself before and after on my blog in only my underthings. I'd be all, "Bring on the camera. Do you want me to drop my jeans right here? And can I change into my boy shorts because these thongs would only frighten my readers away . . . in the before pic."
And who knows, Eddie Vedder might have googled himself, saw my little profession of love and sent a comment my way saying, "Hey Laundry Girl. I wrote a song for you cause I hear you've always wanted a dude to write a song for you. Here's my number, give me a call and I'll sing it to you with my deep, gravely, sexy voice."
And what if he's waiting by the phone getting all pissed off that he took the time to write this song and I don't even have the decency to call him back?
Or even better what if Bono commented? What if Bono saw the 5 mazillion tags about him on my blog and came over and looked around and then sent me a comment saying, "I thought you'd like to meet me for a pint and Whatever."
Blogger, I swear, if you made me miss the Whatever with Bono, I will cry and then I will send you a nasty letter and then I will say mean things about you on my blog.
Because, that sir, is as badass as I get.
This is Part One of my story because some folks have been getting a little cranky about my long blogs. I'm not sure why.
It only takes a few hours out of a day to absorb the 10,000 words of my average posts.
This is a long post, I know. But it would have been even longer, thanks to what's to come. And what's to come is all about the diamonds. Those glittery, fabulous diamonds.
Today's Definite Download: I had something else in store but then . . . I can't even say it without my heart feeling like a whispery piece of paper being torn in two.
I have been a Florida girl now for almost all my life. There are certain elements of my world here that I love, that I have never taken for granted.
The spanish moss that drapes from my trees, gray lacy necklaces that sing the songs of the south.
My bare feet which are calloused with wear because here the earth is meant to be felt, warm and alive under your feet.
The sun that shines, a constant presence.
And above everything else, there is the beautiful Gulf of Mexico.
It happens every time we venture to the beach. The minute we hit the bridge, the Gulf rises up before us, spread out like a glimmering jewel to the edges of the horizon. Sky to sea, everywhere I look its tranquil blue waters confirming what I know to be true. I am home.
The Gulf holds treasures like no other sea. Its fine, white sand as soft as baby powder. The gentle lapping pulse of its warm tides, so much better than the angry, crashing waves of her sister, the Atlantic Ocean. There is no better place to breathe than lolling in her welcoming waters, the taste of salt upon one's lips, its balmy ebb and flow washing away all the troubles of the Earth.
Dolphins swim in close proximity to the beachgoers, delighting the throngs with their frolicking play.
And even in the winter, the Gulf entrances. The stingrays glide at the gulf's edge, a beautiful synchronized dance, a show like no other. I feel so fortunate to be witness to it. To all of it, this Gulf of Mexico, one of God's greatest gifts to Mother Earth.
And now all of it lies in peril. Now, a choking, black cloud of poison is making its way insipidly through my beloved waters, and no one can figure out how to stop it.
The dolphins. The stingrays. The pelicans. The fish of the sea. The vast and varied sea life. All in mortal danger.
BP, what have you done?
Damn you BP. Damn you.
I understand the need for drilling. I am not blind to what needs to be done in order to make us less reliant on unreliable people and places for a necessary resource.
But, drilling should only be allowed with the most rigorous and exacting safety procedures in place. There is no room for error when it comes to our precious waters.
She is our Gulf. Our beautiful lady. And she cannot be replaced.
It is being called potentially the worst ecological disaster the nation has ever faced.
We need to do better by her.
For today: Randy Newman's "Louisiana 1927". Randy Newman is one of the finest songwriters of our time. His music is brilliant. It's kind of a shame that he's best known for his quirky, "Short People" song because he's just an incredible talent.
Here's a link to the song because it's just one of those songs you have to hear for yourself.
He wrote "Louisiana 1927" about the devastation caused by The Great Mississippi Flood of 1927. But, I think for today, it is an apt song for my precious Gulf. The oil is flowing that way up towards New Orleans as we speak, choking everything it its path.
They're trying to wash us away
They're trying to wash us away
Say a prayer today if you can for my friends of the sea and the air and their extraordinary home. Say a prayer for my Gulf of Mexico. May you sparkle again, for all the days to come.