Every once in a while, I wonder what my life would be like without a blog. I fantasize about all the extra time I’d have, and the neuroses I’d shed.
I imagine that I’d have more time to do June Cleaver-esque things, like baking cookies, and canning tomatoes, and cleaning toilets. All with a great big smile, of course.
It’s a nice dream.
But then, it happened.
While doing some routine maintenance, I clicked “update” on a plug-in and, boom, the screen went blank.
I think I may have screamed.
Frantically, I clicked out of my dashboard and tried to log back in.
“FATAL ERROR,” the screen said.
I tried again.
“NUH-UH. FATAL ERROR.”
“I SAID FATAL ERROR, BITCH.”
“WHAT PART OF FATAL ERROR DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?”
I shot a frantic text off to my husband. “My blog is dead. I am doomed.”
Then I told Twitter. And Facebook.
Then, and only then, did I think to email the techie friend who had recently help me move the darn thing.
“Hmmm,” he said, looking at the error message I sent him. “That file path doesn’t look right.”
In other words, we had bigger problems. The site wasn’t where it was supposed to be. I couldn’t even access the FTP.
If this were a movie, that’s when I would have fainted.
Instead, I moaned to one of my Facebook groups. And snarled at my (very patient) husband. And mentally wrote all kinds of nasty tweets to the developer of the plug-in.
Then all I could do was wait.
I could have baked something. Or cleaned something. Or hummed a little tune.
But I didn’t.
I paced. And fretted. And cursed the developer some more (quite eloquently).
I thought about all of the mushy, funny, and just plain silly posts I’d written over the years. Posts that were in danger of disappearing forever. And I realized that I most definitely didn’t want to be without a blog.
It’s part of me.
When (with my hubby’s help, and thanks to our techie friend) I was finally able to delete that dastardly, blog-destroying plug-in, a huge weight lifted off my shoulders.
My baby’s back.
Cue a giant sigh of relief.
My name is Amber, and I am addicted to blogging. But, you know what? That’s okay.
I ‘d make a really sucky June Cleaver anyway.