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Toil and Trouble

October 12, 2015

 

I finally have a website; however, dear readers, this website is covered with tears, coffee, prayers and even (well, mainly) curses.

 

“I am a paragraph…”  This was on the template of the website.  Now, after hours of hand-to-hand combat with the website, this became hysterically funny.  I began to envision all sorts of endings to this prelude, and none of them included lines from “I’m a little teapot, this is my spout…”  They were far, far more disconcerting and alarming.

 

One of my daughters finally took on the task of enabling me to spread my particularly disturbing way of writing onto the Internet for all the world to see.

She immediately removed my confetti background, loudly decried my selections of clip art, and finally had to banish me from the room.  She worked so hard that circles began to appear under her eyes, or maybe the website had just become possessed and now wanted to devour anyone who attempted to change it.  Maybe it had a threat and a promised plague to anyone who would dare to alter anything, like at the end of the Bible.  I don’t know, but from my vantage point in the kitchen, I saw her droop lower in the computer chair and the curl left her hair, little by little.  Sometimes she was totally motionless, as if she had become transfixed by the horror of it all. When I would periodically sneak back into the living room to peer over her shoulder, I was astounded to see that her fingers were beginning to become clawlike. Time passed.

 

“I am a paragraph” and its revolving text box was ever present, an unyielding motif. 

 

Finally, she was able to gain some control over the hell that I had wrought, went to her room, and shut the door. I crept back into the living room and sat quietly in the chair.  Maybe the website would think that she was still there.  Against her specific orders, I just had to try to add something on the site.  I just had to dick with it.  I couldn’t help it. Of course, I fouled it again; it puked its contents all over the Internet.  No, I was wrong, I was very wrong, to have mistakenly, uncomprehendingly, hit “Publish.”

 

I ran to her door, and called her forth.  She came out, rubbing her eyes.

“I was asleep.  You woke me up.  Didn’t you see my light was off?”

I pointed, wordlessly, to the computer. She sat down in front of it, and miraculously, fixed my fault with one swipe.

 

“Now,” she said, “when something goes wrong, don’t shit yourself.  Just wait until I can work on it.”  Shaking her head, she again disappeared into the tomblike sanction of her darkened room.

 

Left alone once again, what did I do?  What would Sally do?  I f---ed with it again.  The same thing went wrong!  Of course it did.  I felt incredulous - I seemed unable to learn from my mistakes, the very definition of insanity.  My husband had been right all these 35 years.  I looked expectantly at the bedroom door.  There was no light emanating from the bottom of the door.  I didn’t dare knock on it again.

 

I went through a cycle of rage and tears, curses and prayers.  The website finally relented.  I was able to figure out where I had erred in its unyielding commandments. 

 

“I am a paragraph.” 

 

We made our peace at last.

 

 

 

 

 

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