“Get on the train to see your friends.
Buy tickets for more Met games.
Make the dinner plans.
Don’t be so afraid of dying that you become afraid to live.
As Snoopy so eloquently said, We only die once: but we live every day. Make it so.”
-LA, “For when I have so few words“
“Your circle should want you to win. Your circle should clap the loudest when you have good news. If they don’t, get a new circle.”
-One of those ubiquitous internet quotes
Look, I get it. I’m so busy I can’t remember what I ate for breakfast, or even if I had breakfast. I don’t have time to fold my shirts, bring the toy room up to OSHA standards, or sit around wondering if I consumed food that morning.
I certainly do not have time for reading blogs -Wait! Yes, I do! Every 2-3 hours, I am stuck on a couch while a small human sucks milk from my body. Why can’t I catch up on my friends’ stories then?
I’ll tell you: because of WordPress!
Back when I started blogging, I could read and comment on a story or a poem or a picture right from my phone. WordPress kept me logged in, so I whizzed around the sites I followed like a person who reads blogs quickly.
Then, the trouble started.
I surfaced from a pregnancy haze and noticed I wasn’t getting e-mails from LA‘s site anymore. Confused, I discovered she wasn’t listed as one that I followed. I remedied that, only to notice the same thing happen again a few months later. When I messaged her to ask if she’d dropped me, she promised she had not.
After that, I was unable to leave comments on Lisa‘s blog, Stephen‘s blog, or P’Arc‘s blog. I have to click a login button just to respond to terrible poetry entrants.
Recently, I remembered that Matt mentioned me in an award. I went to find that post. Surprise! I was no longer following him. After rectifying that, he commented on my post: hum…i am not unfollowing you but everytime it seems i check your blog i have rehit the follow button…what the hell WordPress ??
What the hell WordPress, indeed.
Like I said, I’m a busy gal. I don’t have time. I do have friends. I want to be able to read what those friends write and to be able to comment. And yet; un-follows, inability to login, and dropped sites are cramping my style.
What can I do? I don’t know. The only way I’m able to comment is by using an actual computer. Even then, I get screens that do not load and logins that never go through.
Have you experienced issues with WordPress? Are you able to comment on the sites you wish to? Do you know the customer service number I can use to send them a flaming bag of poo?
UPDATE: I submitted an issue to the forum. We’ll see if anything happens.
—–
If you’re able to, read over my posts from this past week:
Wednesday, February 26: I announced our first Kickstarter in “Kickstarters and Chainmail Bikini.”
Thursday, February 27: Throwback: “Zombie Lunchlady.”
Friday, February 28: Winner of the Weekly Terribly Poetry Contest. Congratulations to Bruce Goodman!
Saturday, February 29: Leap Day!! Announced the 61st Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest. The theme is to write a poem like Ern Malley. PLEASE ENTER!
Sunday, March 1: Continued Joanne’s story, “The Terror in the Suburbs.”
Monday, March 2: An inspirational quote by Abraham Lincoln, but really Reverend William H. J. Boetcker.
Tuesday, March 3: Got around to answering Matt Snyder’s questions from his Sunshine Blogger Award nomination.
Wednesday, March 4: Today.
I also posted on my motherhood site. I wrote “How to Raise the Best, Most Emotionally Well-Adjusted Kids in Today’s Society” and “Mother of One” (a limerick).
Photo Credit: JESHOOTS.COM
©2020 Chelsea Owens
She hadn’t expected a fanfare, nor a parade. Like most who pass through life, she’d thought those who knew her would attend: Mr. Partridge, her under-neighbor; Mrs. Tolk with the annoying parrot next-door; even cranky Mr. Ky, who delivered her groceries.
“None of them,” she said in a church whisper.
As the pastor’s words echoed round the empty room, she felt an empty hand pat her incorporeal arm. One other soul attended. “I’m sorry,” Clarence commiserated. He gave her a smile.
Miss Wonderly murmured, “Thank you,” softly as before and sat down on the edge of the chair’s wooden seat.
100 words for Kristian’s 50 Word Thursday Prompt.
Miss Wonderly murmured, “Thank you,” softly as before and sat down on the edge of the chair’s wooden seat.” – The Maltese Falcon – Dashiell Hammett.
©2019 Chelsea Owens
Smile more, the optimists say;
Others love you for you.
Be smokin’ hot, the realists say;
With rich connections to boot.
“If you have only one smile in you, give it to the people you love. Don’t be surly at home, then go out in the street and start grinning, ‘Good morning’ at total strangers.”
-Maya Angelou
I am not very good at making friends.
Or, maybe I am and don’t know it.
Reassuring people on places like Facebook (who do not stay to talk long in person) tell me that everyone feels the way I do. They say that they like me and, no, I do not have a smell or an annoying habit or whatever.
Then, as I said, they don’t hang around.
I think, in fact, they are wrong about their assertions. -Though not about the smell. I shower and deodorize and even use girly-spritz most days.- I think I do have an annoying habit and I am a whatever.
My annoying habit is that I am socially defunct and that I kind of want to be. Whilst simultaneously envying the cluster of blonde-dyed women who have all had Botox and wear Size 4 or lower, I also …well, you see what I do. I judge. I think it even shows in my face because what’s internal becomes external for me. No, I am not a good poker player.
What I am not sure about is whether this envy/judging plays a part in my other behaviors or if I am just trying to ‘be me’ (another terrible suggestion). In this case, I refer to my discussing subjects that are more interesting than whoever is pretending to be The Bachelor or what piece of whitewashed antique barnwood Joanna Gaines is using this week.
Further, I am not sure if I eschew things like barnwood because of my fierce desire to be unique and, most definitely, not ever be classified as a typical woman; or if I really don’t like those things.
Some times I go to social functions and feel things are going well. I listen to a willing woman’s life stories and, occasionally, am able to broach a more advanced topic. More than once when this happened, my conversation partner remarked, “You’re a deep thinker.”
Deep thinker? Does that make them a shallow thinker? A not-thinker?
There I go being judgy again. I guess I just need to turn that off. Or, start watching more shows about bachelors.
Are you a social butterfly? An outcast? A ‘deep thinker?’ What do you think about The Mystery of Socializing?
—–
I can small talk. I’ll start with my week in review:
Wednesday, January 9: “A Tree Falls in a Forest; Does the Reader Hear It?,” a post about a little stream, or maybe a metaphor.
Thursday, January 10: “Skinwalkers, XLVIII.” The End of Skinwalkers, at least on here. The story was taking way too long for everything I wanted to do, so I figured I’d stop boring everyone with it.
Friday, January 11: Winner of the Weekly Terribly Poetry Contest. Congrats to a new contender, M.K.M.
Saturday, January 12: Announced the ninth Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest. Write a limerick and share it!
Also, “Directions from a Druid,” in response to D. Wallace Peach‘s picture prompt.
Sunday, January 13: “Bio-Enrichment,” my flash fiction conversation for Carrot Ranch.
Monday, January 14: “Wilhelmina Winters, Seventy-Nine.”
Also, “What Do You Do All Day?” at my mothering blog.
Tuesday, January 15: Inspirational quote from a song written by Charlie Chaplin.
Wednesday, January 16: Today!
Boo the Ghost shivered in the doorway of the old, dark house. His job was to haunt it all night.
His friend, Wally the Werewolf, scrambled by. “Hey, Boo! Come howl with me.”
“Sorry,” Boo said. “I can’t.”
Next, Freddy the Frankenstein stomped past. “Hey, Boo! Come moan with me!”
“Sorry,” Boo said. “I can’t.”
Wilma the Witch flew by with her cauldron. “Hi, Boo! Why don’t you come fly?”
“Sorry,” Boo said. “I can’t fly, either.”
All of Boo’s friends looked at each other. “Then,” they said, “WE will come to you.”
And they all haunted the house together.
Made with the help of all my invisible friends for Susanna Leonard Hill’s Halloweensie Contest.
“I wish to be a famous dancer!”
“I wanna be a millionaire!”
“I want to build the world’s first robotic house!”
They all turned to their silent friend.
“What do you wish for, Chelsea?”
“I can’t tell.”
Shrugging, they watched the comet pass, carrying their wishes. It would return in ten years’ time, granting them what they had asked.
Carly would be a dancer.
Tanner would be rich.
Edward would be building robots.
And Chelsea? She didn’t know. How could the comet possibly turn her into a cosmic fairy able to soar through the night sky as it did?
“When I grow up,”
I say
From too-tall counters, unfair portions, summer bedtimes.
When I grow up,
I hope
For friends, a car, no one ever telling me, “No.”
When I grow up,
I think
Promises will be kept, rules followed; the world blacks and whites.
Grown up,
I see
Crumb-filled countertops, imperfect pieces, little sleep.
Grown up
I wish
For friends, fewer expenses, parents’ good advice.
Grown up
I learn
People are human, rules bend; the world….
Is rainbowed
I take a crayon and draw my mind:
Greening forest,
Glittering sky,
And a yellow tent,
Glowing from within.
Chel Owens 