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From Zero to Insanity in .6 Seconds: Wifi Woes

wifi woes

What one thing would I change about myself? My impatience with technology trouble.

I go from zero to insane in .6 seconds at the first dropped packet.

[blockQuote position=”left”]I once beat a laptop to death for not moving fast enough.[/blockQuote]

It’s 6:25 AM. I just spent an hour and a half, on and involuntarily-off the phone with Comcast. My wifi was acting up for days until finally, no amount of unplugging and restarting was going to fix it.

Daily posting is required of NaBloPoMo bloggers so I set off on my trip to crazytown (Kabletown?) in earnest on Tuesday via phone.

How many people do you have to give your address and last four digits of SSN to just to get asked… what can I help you with? Three per phone call, minimum.

How My 9′ by 3′ Office is Changing My Life

Reinventing yourself

I write from my favorite place in the world, my couch.

It’s cozy and deep, with room for four pillows, two dogs and two adults.

Don’t tell anyone (though you’d have to be headless not to notice) my couch has magnetic powers that require you to pull out your inner contortionist to get fully horizontal.  It’s great for productivity.

You see,  my empire is HQ’d here- my 9′ by 3′ office, in my 15′ by 40′ house.  The couch is huge (see above) and comfortable (also see above).

My real office is in my basement and is substantially larger- an entire story of the house.

Who can work in a cellar unrelated to wine?

Betsy, Barbie and Beth

Barbie and friendsBetsy Ray made me want to change my name.

I found the Betsy-Tacy books when I was in grade school and I read all, back to back. I adored Betsy. She was adventurous, she was a good friend, she loved to laugh and have fun.

She was a writer.

Now, Beth and Betsy aren’t too far off from each other. The key difference is, usually, Betsy is a nickname for Elizabeth. My name is just Beth. I wasn’t particularly fond of my name- what little girl is, really?– and Elizabeth was worse (it’s an Irish-Catholic thing, don’t ask).

But oh to be a writer.  Betsy saw herself as a writer when she was five and she made me feel like I was going to be a writer too.

I needed to– to escape my day-and-nightmare childhood. To see the world. To meet strange people. To speak French.

God, grant me the chance to prove money won’t change me


God, please grant me the opportunity to prove winning the lottery won’t change me.

Would I be noble? Would I hop on a plane? Would I tell anyone?

My lottery fantasies always involve real-estate.

Not as in, a dream property on a beach in the South of France (though, now that I mention it…)

What To Do If Jessica Lange Is One of the Voices in Your Head

My Imaginary American Horror Story.

I survived torment not unlike Coven and Asylum- an all-girl Catholic High School filled with nuns and teenaged witches. My curse as an adult is an imagination capable of magnifying a glimmer of light into a disembodied eyeball peering through a second story window.

I am afraid of the dark. Things that go bump in the night terrify me.

Jessica Lange is one of the voices in my head.

What’s a scaredy cat to do?

Get a dog.

I haven’t had a pooch-free day since the 80’s. As a result, unless my insomnia attacks me, my mind rests rather easily most of the time.

One dark and stormy night, (because every horror story, imaginary, American or otherwise, needs thunder and lightning), an explosion of glass blasted me and both dogs out of our collective snoring and dreaming. We froze, three huddled masses beneath a make-shift shield of sheets and blankets.

“Go see. Go, go see.” I whispered vehemently, trying to rile Samantha and George, my Boxers, into storming the front-door.

Go see yourself, their faces said back, without so much as a muscle twitch. We all stopped breathing as well, to listen for clues about the intrusion.

I didn’t hear anything. More to the point, I didn’t hear anyone. If a prowler was in the house, I reasoned, the dogs would go crazy. They would bark incessantly and viciously at a strange person, I was convinced.

At that moment, as they hid under the comforter, I had to wonder if my certainty was misplaced.

Happy Birthday to Single and the Sweet Side of 40: A birth, a death and the whole half story

October 24, 2013

Happy Birthday, Single and the Sweet Side of 40. Welcome to the blogosphere.

Launching a new website on a mid-autumn Thursday is not an obvious move. An optimist (not me) or PR Pro (formerly me) might focus on the slow-news-day aspect; it should be easier to get the story out.

A logical person, a data analyst or a business strategist might try to rule the day with facts and pie charts. Clearly, not, not, not me.

Me? Why did I decide this blog should be born October 24, 2013?

It’s my half-birthday, of course. Who could resist starting a website for single people on a day that is special for being half of something? Not me, because in a world where “whole” is only possible by joining two halves, single women have a bigger PR problem than a blog born under Scorpio.

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