One cannot produce a blog minus technology. Pity. I hate technology. Not only is it wildly frustrating, it is the epitome of rude.
Finding a human being to discourse problems, problems and finally opinions on the lack of human help with those problems is impossible. Although The Diaries site created a couple of years ago was beautiful, it proved not to be functional. The irony of that statement is not lost on me. Unfortunately, a blog is not a shoe. I cannot buy insoles and force it to fit.
When I did reach a human, my helper was of the non-English-speaking variety and available only as online written chat. He may not have spoken, or written, English but I spoke and wrote, nothing he understood as well. We hit an impasse the day he advised me to transfer a CRM to some place and eliminate space through the zoom manager inside the server. He may as well have told me to wear no makeup to the store. Pfft.
As it turns out, one of the chickens actually followed my advice and steered toward bliss. No lie. My responsible, financial guru, Oldest Chicken, chucked the nine to five that was stealing his soul, moved (yes, with Baby Pea) to San Diego and went back to school. He now builds websites and is able to follow his travel dreams. Whaaa? I know, right? Who knew they were listening when I said, “Life is short. Do what you love.” Easy words when The Norwegian was paying the bills.
Just as mothers of doctors ask their sons for diagnoses (you know who you are my friend) I consult my personal website builder. In a matter of days, he recreates what I need in a way that makes sense to me and I can handle. So there, guy in India who wants me to wear no makeup to the store.
You’ll find it easier to navigate, comment and share. It’s easier to chat and when you hit the links you’ll actually be directed to the site. I heard the complaints. I was not ignoring you dolls. I just didn’t have a clue where to stick a CMR or whatever behind a server. Up his fat ass hardly seemed the right answer.
Indulge a mother and look around.
Poor Oldest Chicken never read the blog before. He says now he knows why. Not exactly sure why he’s surprised. He spent a lifetime embarrassed by my smothering and oversharing. When all was complete, I said, “How about I tell everyone and see if we can get you some business.”
His bragging genes come from his father. “Please don’t,” says he.
Too late.
The Duchess Diaries 