Many 12-step programs tell you to “Let Go and Let God”.
But, as my big sister often reminds me, even when we do so, we frequently freak out and claw stuff right back.
Case in point…
I recently took a deep breath, said some prayers, and moved the HOGS Blog to a cheaper New Zealand server and domain registrar.
I was advised this process would be simple and seamless.
What could possibly go wrong?
So, to prepare, I had this kind of conversation with the Lord.
Me: “Lord, after five years and almost 400 posts, HogsAteMySister has not made me rich or famous, as I thought we had planned, and the future is not looking so crash hot. I no longer have the energy to repurpose the content into Amazon ebooks, like my butthead writer friend in Oregon whose initials may or may not be Kris Wehrmeister. Not that I begrudge her success, because she deserves it. She is amazing. The big, fat, talented cow. Sorry, Lord. Anyway, I decided to once again put this blog in Your hands. So, if during the change of hosting companies, you allow the blog to plummet into the internet abyss, I will take that as a sign that You think the blog sucks canal water, okay?
Me: On the other hand, Lord, if the transfer goes well, and there were to be a few positive signs like, say, bales of money falling from the sky, or maybe a few parades in front of my house, that could be seen as a sign of Your approval, to carry on, You know?
Me: “Okay, then.”
So I Let Go and Let God and Stepped Out in Faith and made the internet changes.
And the blog tumbled right into Abyss City.
If you Googled HogsAteMySister.com, all you got was — “page suspended”.
Since I had totally given the whole deal to God, I said, “Fine, Lord, Thy will be done.”
And I was totally at peace.
Until I started tiger-clawing everything back.
Calling and emailing and DM’ing hosting companies and various internet boffin
And reclarifying the situation with God.
Me: “Lord, just to be clear, if You REALLY REALLY REALLY want all my precious words, and the equity I have built up in this blog, over FIVE LONG YEARS, to just go POOF, Your will be done… But, having said that, Lord, I don’t think you meant for me to type in the WRONG street address for my domain name renewal which, come to find out, was a VERY BAD THING. And since You have no hands or feet (or laptops) on Earth, but mine, it only makes sense that I should use the skills you have given me in a last ditch effort to get out of the stupid Abyss of Internet Doom. But if I fail, and the HOGS blog is dead, Thy Will be done.
Me: Lord, I’m taking Your silence as an indication that I should try one more time.
And thus began the Period of Insane Clawing Back that reached right down the Internet into America, Philippines, Australia, New Zealand and who knows where else?
Then I was exhausted and defeated. I accepted that HOGS was a goneburger.
But then the boffins called and said “give us 3-5 days.”
During this time of testing, I didn’t check the Internet at all, because I had agreed the blog was totally in the Lord’s court.
OK, maybe I checked once. Twice, tops. Because I am nothing if not a hypocrite.
And then, boom, HogsAteMySister came back to life.
I am not sure what that means.
I do NOT see this as a Divine Seal of Blog Endorsement.
It’s probably just another lesson in faith, e.g. “Stop with the clawing back, already.”
I am still too sick and tired (see angry chest badgers) to edit five years’ worth of content into Amazon e-books that might be salable to Okie Boomers or Curmudgeons or Crack Puppy owners.
So I will have a think and pray some more.
Me: BTW, Lord, sorry about the claw marks all over everything. But you know how I am…
Yes, we are aware that one of our high school friends is recovering from a very, very serious back problem, and that the global economy is being dragged down the tubes by China.
But the blog is a sick man, and we need to whine.
We are now on on Day 18 of Killer Horror Chest Gunk That Is Not Flu, But Which Is Way Worse Than Ebola With Angry Chest Badgers.
We are now on our second doctor and third antibiotic.
And we are pretty much coughing our head off today because Doctor Number Two said that, most of the time, cough medicine is a very bad idea.
Which means this blog has spent $45 on three bottles of cough medicine that, turns out, has actually thrilled the 10 billion killer horror virus germs in our chest and bronchial tubes, which feel like angry chest badgers on crack.
(A very serious one about abortion)
Oh little baby, you’ll never cry, nor will you hear a sweet lullabye.
Oh unborn child, if you only knew just what your momma was plannin’ to do.
You’re still a-clingin’ to the tree of life, but soon you’ll be cut off before you get ripe.
When I was a senior at Norman High School, in 1974, I remember happily buying the new Seals & Crofts album, then getting really angry at the lyrics to the cover song.
It was the year after the Supreme Court ruled on Roe v. Wade, five years after Woodstock’s “sex, drugs and rock’n’roll”, and six years after Pope Paul VI released his encyclical Humanae Vitae (Of Human Life).
I was a heathen and a virgin.
The LAST thing I wanted was some “anti-abortion” musicians moralizing their way into my bedroom.
Turns out, nobody else did either.
We were Baby Boomers, and it was all about us, not some unborn child.
Sadly, that sweet song could do precious little to hold back the abortion tsunami.
So now, 42 years after Roe v Wade, these are the *facts:
- more than 77 million babies have been aborted in America
- so far this year, 646,283 babies have been aborted in the land of free and the home of the brave
- 193,941 of these babies were aborted by Planned Parenthood, America’s biggest abortionist
- Recently, Planned Parenthood managers were caught sipping wine and talking about “crushing above and below” so organs from aborted babies could be harvested and sold
- Planned Parenthood apologized for a manager’s “tone”
- The Senate fell three votes short of defunding Planned Parenthood
Lord Have Mercy
All of this has made me ask, Dear Lord, how did we get to this point?
I never knew radio great Paul Harvey, but sometimes I can hear his voice.
I always wanted to do great things, which is probably why I started out as a reporter.
I had a good nose for news and was pretty good at finding the truth.
But, as it turns out, I was also blind as a bat at times, blinded by my ego, and nowhere near greatness.
In 1992-1993, I was a new consultant in Dallas with “the largest privately owned P.R. firm in the world.”
My biggest client, a real estate giant, had asked us to find a hotshot speaker for their Annual Meeting.
I wanted General Norman Schwarzkopf, one of the great military giants of the 20th century, and the Ultimate Alpha Male.
I just knew my real estate Big Dog clients would LOVE hanging out with Stormin’ Norman.
But my choice was not astute.
My boss, however, was astute, and recommended former long-time Reagan aide Michael Deaver.
This did not sit well with me.
The Missus and I need a big house so we both can have our own space.
And in the land of semi-retirement, you watch your money pretty closely.
So, of course, we just bought a little camper van.
In our defense, it’s not really a camper van.
Certainly not like the big one that two families squished into 20 years ago to tour all of New Zealand.
That one had eight berths and a stove and fridge and pooper and shower.
That kind if serious camper van now rents for about $400 per day.
So, when you throw in insurance, diesel and campground fees, etc, it costs about $9,000 to get our of your driveway.
Which poses a dilemma.
How do you quityerbitchin’ about living in the most beautiful country in the world yet never actually seeing any of it?
The answer came last week from above. Or at least the internets.
I was looking for a cheap car, using my super-braniac search engine words “moving to Australia.”
There, among all the actual cars, popped up the cutest little camper van you ever saw.
I mean, it’s called a Mazda Bongo Friendee.
How could that not be a thing of happy destiny?
… Oh, we don’t know, there are so many things to choose from.
Probably the best thing about torrential rains is when the Missus dispatches the blog to our house’s slick metal roof, at night, when it is pitch freaking black, to clear out the gutters, because her bat-like sensors just KNOW they are clogged.
No, actually, the best part is when the Missus — being all kinds of helpful, as the blog was risking life and limb on the slick metal roof, at night, in a winter downpour — hits me right between the eyes with a 10,000-candlepower spotlight.
Because when you are soaking wet, and crouching on the very edge of the slick metal roof, at night, scooping crap out of the gutter by hand, you really want to be blinded by the light.
And get bonus points for retinal detachments and vertigo.
Yes, all were just awesome.
But, in retrospect, the best thing was — when the blog had shed his soaking wet blue jeans and goose-down puffer jacket, and was just about to climb into a hot bathtub — hearing a siren shriek from the basement.
One with a Singaporean accent; able to penetrate 12-inches of reinforced concrete and/or my forehead.
A siren song that meant that the basement was flooding, and that having a soggy, frostbitten butt was the very least of the blog’s worries.