January 17, 2011 by Marj Hatzell
I’m actually starting to learn some of this website stuff. Now that I have my own host and .com address and I can tweak customization and what not, I am getting to the point where I kinda-sorta understand this stuff. My next big step is building my own blog from the ground up. Switching over to paid stuff is hard but you have so much more you can do with the old blawg, so it’s pretty much worth it. It’s just that the last time I designed websites (ten years ago), HTML was the new pink and i knew all of the codes and whatnot. This CSS stuff is a teensy bit more difficult to learn. Not really, I’m just a crybaby and fear change. Once I get it, however, I know I will appreciate it more. It’s just that it’s tough to teach this old dog new tricks. Holy crap, did I just compare myself to a dog? Well, if it has to be that way, I’m a Border Collie. But I bet you knew that, right?
Also, also, I’m making an effort to use ONE space after a period instead of TWO. Apparently this is a BIG DEAL in the online world, even though I had to learn to use TWO on a typewriter and even in the early days of ‘puters we used two. But I don’t pay attention to that stuff too much. But now it’s kinda important. You know, for professional stuff and all that.
And while we’re on the subject of making changes, just for fun I did one of those website readability thingies to see how my blog fared. I did pretty well, apparently the readability of my blog is SECOND GRADE, which means seven-year-olds can read what I’m typing and understand it. Awesomesauce. Perhaps this is the reason people don’t come back? My blog is on the same level as a Dick and Jane primer?Fantabulous! That got me to thinking, it’s time to put on my big girl panties and use bigger words. So here it goes.
Awakened from his restful slumber, Bugaboo sprinted from his chambers and into ours. He catapulted himself onto our overstuffed pallet, squeezing between us. His frigid toes brushed by my leg and instantly electrified my skin, jolting me from my three-hour old repose. For the next four hours, he and I would be acting out our nightly nocturnal waltz. Once his hunger was satiated and his thirst quenched, I was under the delusion that he’d peacefully drift off into a silent siesta. He was operating under an alternate aim, however. Once I ultimately heard snores indicating his resign to rest I then glared at the ceiling for a few what seemed like an eternity. I must have drifted off at some point because the next memory I can invoke was my husband, rousing me and inquiring about our son’s whereabouts. In my fugue state, I left him dozing downstairs.
There. That should be at least fifth grade, right? And if you don’t understand what I wrote above (because the average American reads on a fifth to seventh grade level), here it is in a nutshell: Boy howdy, I’m tired.