|
How do I get into trouble by blogging? Let me count the ways.
First of all, the usual: Readers don't always agree with what I say. Or they don't like getting emails directing them to my site where they can read what they don't agree with. Or they just don't like getting these kinds of emails.
But, being me, I get in trouble in new and exciting ways, too.
 I sent out an email blast the other night, not realizing that the webmaster was working on the site, which made him wonder what the hell I was thinking. Meanwhile, readers were being sent to an Under Construction site, not to the blog. This is not a good way to win readers and influence the blogsphere.
The most humiliating thing I've done was to send a very nasty email — by mistake — to someone who didn't want to provide names for my mailing list.
I wrote this vile piece of vitriol, in a fit of irrational anger, to another friend, hit the wrong name on my address book — and had one of those "Oh shit, what have I done now!" moments that are all too common in my life . . .
|
|
The blogging adventure continues.
Today I got my first expletive-deleted reply to an e-mail blast.
The expression was nothing special, just the usual three little words, beginning with "go" and ending with "yourself," with a four- letter expletive in the middle, suggesting an activity I might want to perform on my person.
I hear this suggestion made to others all the time, on every street corner, bus stop, and store in the city, and many, many times in every cop movie I've ever seen. I've even had it shouted at me, in a memorable scene at a restaurant when a friendship was undone. (This town wasn't big enough for both of us anyway.) But this is the first time I've seen it in print directed at my blog.
Well, there's a first time for everything, but now I have to figure out how to reply to this reply.
When I get requests to remove someone from the mailing list, and we all get a few of these, I send an email right back saying, "Done." And I do. Take the name off the list.
But "Done" doesn't seem to cut it in this case. I mean, she didn't ask to be taken off the list, now did she? So what would I have "done?" What she suggested? I don't think so . . .
|
|
 What good is a "secret" that's been out for thousands of years?
Well, if it's news to you, it could change your life.
The Secret, which had everyone buzzing on Oprah, is that everything in the universe is connected, including your thoughts, so that what you think directly affects what happens to you. In fact, you get what you ask the universe to give you.
This is not praying or begging, but like placing an order in a catalog. You have to be specific, and you have to work towards your goal. But if you do this, you will get what you want.
Trust me, folks, this is nothing new. I'm not saying it's bad, nor am I mocking it. Maureen Dowd called it a cross between Dr. Phil and the Da Vinci Code. Well, yeah, a little around the edges. If I were bitter, I'd say that's it's a new way to make money from an old idea. All I know is that when I went to the web site, it asked for $4.95 to enter it, and when I didn't pay up, that colorful whirling ball came up and wouldn't stop until I shut down the computer and rebooted. Coincidence? Retribution? You decide.
Anyway, this whole philosophy goes back to the time of Aristotle (a lot of good it did him!), or maybe even to some cheery caveman — one who hadn't seen those poignant Geico ads . . .
|
|
It was The Summer of Our Discontent, or at the very least, Our Profound Crankiness.
Here in the East, it started in June with endless rain. It seemed as if it rained every day. Probably because it did rain practically every day. It broke some kind of record, not the kind of record you want to break. It's like getting into Guinness for hiccuping for 40 days and 40 nights. Not recommended.
Then came July, when we usually rent a cottage by the sea ("down the shore," if you get my drift). We didn't do that this year in a futile attempt at frugality. The reason for the attempt to save money is obvious: Stock. Market. Crash.
The futile part was that other expenses popped up, including a last-minute trip to Florida on a mission of mercy. Good for the karma, hard on the wallet. At home, there were some appliance situations too boring to talk about. And then the car died.
It had been sick for months, and after driving a number of car salesman as crazy as the weather, we bought another — just days before the Cash for Clunkers thing was announced! Although we never did find out if our 12-year-old Mercedes with 250,000 miles on it would "qualify" as a clunker.
Clunker, schmunker . . .
|
|
|
apr 
