I don’t hear much about manners nowadays although there are some newly rich peiple who have sent their children to manners school, where they can pretend they are at lunch at the president’s house. I think that’s true, but what I’m getting at is that it used to be considered crude to discuss your operation or your itches in public, whereas I can’t begin to recount all the tales of blood and guts that I have been subjected to in the last years of relaxed standards. The same restrictions can probably be applied to blogging. Blogging, like good health, has its joys, but the other side of that coin reveals serious shortcomings that send the blogger to her nearest confidant.
That’s my point today. The actual problem that I have had with my blog is so difficult that I really hesitate going into it deeply, although I want to so much. Perhaps many of you out there in blog land already think this is tedious, but it isn’t going to stop me from telling it and even get some sympathy. THEY, the same tiny little black things that often manage our lives, told me my blog could no longer be publicized. I told THEM (not in so many words) that I didn’t care, and that got THEIR dander up. THEY determined to punish me and while I watched readership quickly drop in half I saw my own self-confidence slowly disappearing along with the readers.
What to do? Careful recall of the days that led up to this morning let it be known that I had brought this impasse on myself.
Note: I was so troubled that all I had for breakfast was toast and jam at 10:30, and no lunch at all. Not to mention that my garden was waiting for a little attention and that was out of the question.
Well, things started looking up when I found the only person among five willing to take on my problem. He was termed Extraordinaire. He figured it out, He told me how to cure it. Actually I would tell it all, but it’s just too hard. At one point during our three hour chat, (oh yes. Three hours.) I wrote, rather plaintively, I think,
Don’t give up the ship.
And he wrote back, Never! I will go down with it first.
That’s the kind of guy he was. In the end he proved modest. He did not ask for the biggest tip. I told him he was a sweetheart, the least I could do. I put on my shoes, got in the car and went out to the mall where I picked up a ready roasted chicken and a bottle of wine. Betsy was in San Antonio on business and Fiona was at her rehearsal. Jim and I ate a scattered sort of dinner. He did not really want to talk about the blog, and I don’t blame him. And for the first time today I heard about the tornadoes down south.