July 18, 2018

i hate wordpress even more than i hate ohms

Great for the garden.
While folding laundry earlier, I found a pair of my son's underwear that was ... compromised.  It wasn't a skid mark so much as evidence of a forty-car pile-up.  But they were washed and dried and I threw them onto the "folded" pile because I don't have to wear them and I'd put good money on his not caring, or even noticing.

I was folding laundry because I had to walk away from my computer.  Laundry has a calming influence.  It's like having the power to put your world in order.  Except for fitted sheets, which bring out my violent tendencies, but there weren't any tonight, so things worked out.

I had to walk away from my computer because I spent hours trying to migrate this blog to WordPress.  This endeavor ended with the following conversation:  The nice agent asked me for my information and I told her things, and she asked how she could help me, and I said she could cancel everything I had done today and send me back in time. "Reason you're giving for cancellation?" she asked. "So WordPress won't make me have a nervous breakdown and I won't throw this laptop through the sliding glass door and out on the deck. Because it might rain later and then the laptop would get wet, and it's kind of new and I like it, except for when it goes to WordPress."

There was a pause from the agent. "Yeah, I tried to do a page on there once.  It's not the easiest site to use."

I got the refund, and so much more.  I got validation.

I'm a techie and I'm not stupid.  I can Google my way around things that aren't immediately apparent or intuitive and patch this and that together.  That's pretty much my life with Excel, and always has been.  But when the simplest click on something like "browse templates" or "upload images" produces large, glaring messages like "CANNOT MODIFY HEADER INFORMATION - CALL TO UNDEFINED FUNCTION WP-INIT.PHP" and "EXECUTION .HTACCESS EXCEEDED", I go from zero to fuck-it in six seconds flat.  Even That Guy On The Internet couldn't help me, and he knows everything.

It made me feel just like I feel when my daddy tries to explain electricity to me.  "It's easy," he says.  Then there are some words about voltage and amps and watts and ohms and flow and resistance and speed and current and amount and force and please shut up please please please because my brain is saying no and I can't understand this even when you're not talking and I read it somewhere and it's never going to happen and why are you still talking?  Sadly, I can't throw my daddy out onto the deck in the rain.  He's too heavy.

P.J. was proud of me because I persisted in trying to get WordPress to see reason.  I kept at it, even during dinner, when she played our happy dragon game and simultaneously watched me scowl and tap a button now and then and issue continuous hiss-threats under my breath like, "I swear to god, I will extract your testicles and boil them and bronze them and use them as decorations in my beautiful, beautiful garden."  That was just aimed at the domain host.  The actual WordPress interface got a lot more verbal attention.

The upshot of all this is that the laundry got folded really well, and I even packed up a box of clothes that I sold on eBay today, and this blog has a new link address (see above) thanks to Google's simple "hey, pay us twelve bucks and we can fix this for you" mentality.  My next goal, Dog willing, is to convince Google to kill the redirect from the old Blogspot address, because the whole reason I set about this was to change the link so the old one would be dead and then I'd once again be in control of who has it.

So if you read me a lot (and I'm looking at you, two people in Canada I don't know, and two in California I don't know, and somebody I don't know in Kansas, and the person I don't know in Maryland, too, and who are you in Inman, South Carolina, plus my friends and family here in N.C. and in Ireland), make a note of it because one day your bookmark won't work.  Just go ahead and change it now - the dot-com will always work.

And thank you for reading about my son's skid marks, and my life, and my non-death, and everything that happens in-between.  You're the reason I have oxygen.

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