Designing a site is about as easy as teaching my washing machine to sing “Whoomp! There It Is!” Actually, now that I think about it, teaching my washing machine might be easier. Just ask my coffee maker, who’s been singing “It’s My Party” since last summer sometime.
The minute computers are turned into anything but email machines, I get flustered. Or, I should say, I start tonguing my Xanax bottle and hallucinating random animals singing an A Capella version of the ABC’s. That’s more like it.
And yet I get tasked (read: task myself) with this shit. It’s the REAL Bad News Bears.
For the past eleventy-five-niner months, I’ve been working on redesigning Band Back Together. It turns out that WordPress kinda balks at having more than 2,000 registered users, 2,000 posts and 300 pages.
(to answer your question: GO WITH WORDPRESS FOR A PERSONAL BLOG. Blogspot is the SuperCuts of the blogging world)
But we’ve been redesigning Band Back Together since I can remember. Which means I’ve been constantly bombarded questions like, “BUT WHAT ARE THE OBJECT PERMISSIONS? WHAT SHOULD WE DO?” Questions like that make me go all, “lalala, pumpkin pie is NOT delicious, lalala,” because I’m just not equipped to answer them.
The new site launched this weekend, which, I was all RAD, NO MORE QUESTIONS ABOUT PERMISSIONS, but then, I got MORE questions about permissions. And objects. And objects WITH permissions.
I spent the weekend fantasizing about photoshopping Avril Lavigne’s neck, severed, and spurting a veritable blood fountain. Don’t ask me what she did to evoke my ire, but I think it’s a song about skaters or complicated, or complicated skaters. Either way, it hurt my vagina to listen to.
But we did it.
And this week, I’m battening down the hatches and preparing for more objects and permissions and answering questions I know nothing about with “um…C?” because that’s what you do when you don’t know. You SOUND like you know the answer. It works out well. (lies)
So now, I am off to tongue my empty Xanax bottle and pray that no one asks me about permissions for at LEAST an hour. Or Avril Lavigne’s head is comin’ OFF.
Go see my purdy work on Band Back Together. Then? Tell Your Aunt Becky how YOUR weekend was.
Bobbing and weaving in time to the music in her head, she bounded over to me.
“Mama,” she smiled largely, the winning smile that I just know she’ll be using on her future dates. “I wanna watch more Tuff Puppy.”
“No Baby-Pants,” I laughed. “Not tonight. It’s bedtime.”
“Okay,” she stretched her smile as widely as she could. “Can we watch more Tuff Puppy on SUNDAY?”
“Sure,” I giggled at her inflection and emphasis. No one is gonna say no to this kid. “We can watch it on Sunday.”
“OKAY,” she broadcast to the whole house. “THANKS MAMA.”
She bobbed and wobbled off to get her diaper changed before bed.
I sat there, looking after her, bemused and amazed and more than a little bit teary.
It’s coming up on her third birthday. To think this tiny tot with an attitude the size of Texas was once the very same baby whose life I prayed for. Who’s head I wept into. Who’s tiny feet I once held onto like they were lifelines to a world in which no NICU’s, no PICU’s existed. It’s hard to reconcile that these are the same people.
Yet they are.
For her birthday this year, I will celebrate. I will buy a monster of a cake and we shall eat it, sharing it happily with anyone who can be bothered to brave the frigid January air. This year, we will celebrate.
And maybe, just maybe, I can let the ghosts of my past, who still haunt my present, be silent.
If only for a day.