This year, my luck has officially run out, folks.
I’m beginning to feel like the old cat trying to learn new tricks…
Okay, more like trying to jump through a hoop of fire, with my legs tied together and a blanket over my face.
It began with the transition of my website to the WordPress program, which was originally limited to a sub-folder for running my blog.
The move itself went swimmingly.
However some of the hard work I’d done, incorporating my Zazzle store merchandise into my website via the Store Builder, was rendered redundant because WordPress doesn’t recognize the program.
There was a work-around, via a plug-in designed specifically for WP, which seemed easy enough to install and use.
Except it didn’t work for me…
And after reading 50+ pages of users’ questions and the standard troubleshooting responses,
and double-no-triple-checking to ensure I followed all the advice given,
I figured it was just me.
I’ve also been forced to re-write all the image links on my blog posts, because they were uploaded to my “blog/wp-content/images” sub-folder…
which no longer exists …as WP is now running the entire site and not just a single folder. :/
Half of my images are still broken… because I get caught up editing the posts, reworking the SEO keywords, and various other distractions.
Disgusted by all the additional work my website now requires, I jumped into a fresh sewing project:
“I have not had the pleasure of understanding football.” – @writershouses
Writers’ Houses on Twitter echoed my feeling towards the panicked momentum leading up to Sunday’s Big Game.
Michelle Scott @mscottdjh followed up by tweeting:
“Incremental victories are coupled with exuberant celebration and punishing admonishment.”
“Is such an indiscriminate display of force by the stronger sex truly necessary? Indeed, it does them a disservice.” -@rosannecash
And thus heralded the Sunday night Twitter phenomenon affectionately known as “Jane Austen at the Super Bowl”, a title coined by Rosanne Cash (singer/author, and yes, daughter of Johnny) to politely mock the brutish sport in a manner befitting our beloved 19th century gentlefolk.
Whenever football season rears its ugly head, Joe and I lock our doors, turn off all the lights, and hide in the hall closet… until the yellow and black banners slowly disappear like melting snow from windows and porches around our neighborhood.
“For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?”
@WesleyStace (John Wesley Harding)