Blog Archives

Computer Glitch

5/31/2018

I'd planned out my Memorial Day weekend well in advance. I worked double-time late into the night all week to make sure I didn't have a lot of editing to do, had washed and ironed and folded and put away every single bit of laundry days beforehand, and had decided not to bother cleaning the house because it's a losing battle anyway. My holiday weekend was going to be as relaxing as possible.

When I woke up Saturday morning, I discovered our website for S&L Editing was down.

It took a couple of hours to find out it was going to stay down, like, forever. The server it had been living on had been nuked to oblivion. (Figuratively, of course.) I needed a new host, fast. The good news is, when the site was first being set up, I'd saved copies of the copy I'd given the webmaster for each page. Sure, losing the blog and its archives was a blow (except I'd saved copies of every blog post, too) but overall, the site shouldn't be too hard to recreate.

Ha. Ha, I say!

First I had to find an inexpensive host, using a platform I was comfortable with. I scoped out Squarespace, Wix, GoDaddy, Bluehost, and Hostgator. I was sorely tempted to go with FatCow, because hey, cows. Ultimately, I went with iPage, who also hosts this very site you're on right now, mostly because the price was great and I'm already familiar with how to build with them.

I'd already lost the better part of the day researching these prices only to find there's no place like where my other website already was. But setting up the site itself was a piece of cake. I opened up my docs from the original site, copied, and pasted into the site pages. Hit "publish" within an hour. Easy peasy, right? I typed "slediting.com" into my browser to see how it looked.

It looked exactly like staceylongo.com.

I logged back on to iPage. Hit publish again. And again. Double- and triple-checked Domain Central. Nothing. S&L Editing continued to welcome visitors to all things Stacey Longo.

I contacted tech support. Silly me! I was publishing to the wrong directory. I fixed that, hit publish again, and went to the website.

My author photo was gone. Hooray! But the lovely images and text and fonts and layout I'd selected when crafting the site? Also gone! What now welcomed people on our professional editing business website was DOS-like text on a sea of solid blue screen.

My editing partner had been letting me vent to him throughout the day. He and technology are not friends, and he often has weird mishaps occur with his computer, phone . . . anything with a microchip, really—that leaves the technician trying to help him scratching their head and muttering, "I've never seen anything like this." So when I was texting screams to Rob, he jumped to the rescue. Listen, I've had a lot of experience with the technology gremlins. The best thing to do right now is let it sit for the night, he advised.

And he was right! When I woke up the next morning, S&L's new website was up and running! With pictures and frames and everything!

Of course, now staceylongo.com was advertising professional editing and proofreading services at reasonable rates.

I decided it could wait. This blog entry wasn't due until Friday, and I had all week to try and wrestle with it. I wanted to enjoy a stinking hotdog on Memorial Day.

The good news: it's fixed now. :) Many thanks to Prakruthi in tech support for making that happen.

Vacation Etiquette

5/25/2018

Going away for Memorial Day? Worried at all about being the kind of tourist the locals refer to as tour-ons? (When it rhymes with moron, it’s not a term of endearment, folks.) I used to live on a vacation resort island. Back in 2003, I wrote a column on proper vacation etiquette. I think it bears repeating now.

(The below first appeared in the Block Island Times in August 2003. It has been edited for contemporary-ness.)

Memorial Day is fast approaching, and the thoughts of locals turn to planning their own vacations. Jason and I think maybe we’ll visit Disney World this year. Though we haven't even bought the tickets yet, I've already made a list of things we won't do on vacation:

We will not walk in the middle of the road, then turn and flip off the driver behind us who has to slam on his brakes to avoid hitting us.
Heck, we won't even walk in the middle of the road. We don't do that at home, why do it on vacation?
We will not ask Mickey Mouse, "What do you do all winter when we’re not here?", implying that his life must be unfulfilling when the tourists are not there taking selfies with him.
We will not blame the prices at the souvenir shop on the part-time cashier.
We will not get liquored up and bang on the door of Michael Eisner's vacation home at 1 a.m., insisting he should meet us because we're his biggest fans.
We will not remark on the beauty of the area as we throw our empty beer bottles in the parking lot of the local grocery store, nor will we bury soiled diapers under a rock near the Haunted Mansion because "they're just too heavy to carry all the way back to the Hall of Presidents."
We will not panic and threaten the life of the busy Starbucks owner when they don't know we prefer fat-free vanilla-bean-flavored almond milk creamer with added B12 in our coffee after having waited on us exactly one time prior.
We will respect the fact that we are just visiting; the Pirates of the Caribbean live in Disney World year-round, and have to clean up after us.

Also, we will not spread rumors based on the fact that I just mentioned dirty diapers. I was making a point about the disgusting slob who wrote to the Times last year about burying diapers on the beach because she apparently had never calculated for the fact that a diaper bag might be necessary, spending the day with an infant and all.

Listen, I’m not trying to criticize anyone for wanting to escape for a few days. All I ask is that you have as much respect for the place you’re visiting as you would want others to have for your home. This is just as relevant today as it was fifteen years ago.

As for me, I’ll be spending my long weekend pretending I’m out on Block Island where I don’t have any cell phone service if anyone tries to call. Happy Memorial Day!

Cinderella, after posing with 400,000 different tourists in one day.

Let It Grow

5/18/2018

Some of my fondest childhood memories are of the garden we had on the farm. My sister and I would “help” Mom plant, weed, and eat the fruits (actually, vegetables) of our labors. We had a huge pumpkin patch down the embankment behind the garden, and every fall, I’d sell pumpkins from our front lawn, which arguably financed the purchase of my first car.

Because of these happy times, I’ve planted a vegetable garden every spring into adulthood. On Block Island, I had a small, rocky patch that I’d till by hand, then plant peppers, cucumbers, beans, and peas. (And every August, I’d find those plants stripped bare by the rodents of unusual size that are inhabitants of the island.) Once I returned to the mainland, and had a decent-sized lawn, I renewed my efforts, planting every spring, weeding all summer, and reaping the benefits of all that hard work every fall.

When Jason and I got together, he was absolutely enamored with the idea of a garden. He began tilling larger and larger plots, suggesting more and more varieties of plants, and would sometimes watch from outside the deer fencing as I weeded, cheering me on and bringing me water when I passed out. But over the years, two things happened: the garden got bigger, and I got older.

And I have to tell you, I’m tired.

I’ve been protesting for a couple of years now that I can’t keep up with a garden the size Jason was tilling. This had zero effect. Last year, I took a stand and only sowed half the plot. It was still too much. This year, after emergency surgery a month ago and just general crankiness, I made an announcement: “I’m not doing a garden this year.”

“But—” Jason said.

“No,” I said.

“Just the area by the shed? And maybe that strip of lawn at the top of the embankment?”

I was tempted, but then the herniated disk in my back spoke up with a face-numbing spear of pain. “No. I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”

“A couple of plants in pots on the side porch?”

I thought about it. If the plants were right off the kitchen, they’d be easy to water. Plus, I wouldn’t have to weed the porch. I thought back to the summer of ’81, the year Kim killed a record 461 hornworms off the tomato plants. Those were good times, and I do still love to garden. “Maybe,” I said, a sentimental fool.

“Great,” he said. “I’ll call your dad and see if we can borrow the rototiller.”

Wait. What?

Our garden, 2018.

Writer's Block

5/11/2018

Many, many writers have had those moments where they’re staring at a blank page and thinking, I can’t think of a single thing to write. I may never have another creative idea again in my lifetime. Maybe it’s followed by, Boy, I sure could go for a chocolate chip muffin (as I am thinking as I type this). I can’t tell you these moments are easily fixed. I can tell you you’re not alone.

When faced with such a crisis, the best advice I’ve ever received is to do something else. Anything else. Push your chair away from that screen and find a different activity, preferably something creative or physical, to give your mind a break. If you like to paint, paint. If you’ve been meaning to plant a small vegetable garden, now’s the time. Is your wrist sore because you don’t have the proper carpal support for your computer mouse? Break out that sewing kit and get to stitching a small wrist pillow. Bake a dozen gluten-free chocolate chip muffins from scratch, then send me some. Do anything . . . other than write.

You’ll likely find your mind will wander during these activities. For example, I hate sewing, but my wrist was shooting stabby “I need some support here” pains up my arm, which really just added insult to the injury of feeling like I’d never have a creative idea again as long as I lived. I cut up an old pillowcase and filled it with dry rice. I sewed it by hand, on purpose, just so it would take longer, and give my mind time to wander. Right around the time I was stuffing the rice in, grain by grain, my husband asked what I’d be making for dinner. Within five minutes, I had the germ of a story idea, about a disgruntled housewife who stabs her husband in the eye with a large sewing needle. She then dismembers the corpse, stuffs the pieces into a roasting pan, and sets the oven to “self-cleaning.” Had I not forced myself to take a break from the computer, this never would’ve happened.

Don’t force the words to come. Take a break. You’ll be pleased to find inspiration can grow from the most ordinary things.

Good thing I made this wrist pillow, because I strained myself with all that cutting. Er, I mean, sewing.

Pants

5/3/2018

I was lamenting last week in my blog about wearing dresses. Apparently, I was complaining at work, too (that’s the sort of sunny personality I have), because one of my coworkers decided to shut me up—er, help me out.

After listening to me grumble for the thirtieth time in one hour about not having pockets (I mean, sure, I used my bra instead to hold my phone, keys, and Kleenex, but it’s not the same), one of the ladies—newly returned from having a baby over the winter—surprised me with a pair of maternity pants.

I have never been pregnant. In my younger years, I might’ve scoffed at the idea of wearing trousers that are essentially black elastic from nipple to butt crack, then transition to normal-looking dress slacks from hip to ankle. But in case I haven’t made it clear, I’d had it.

“You’ll feel like your derriere is hanging out,” she warned me. I didn’t care. I was tired of shaving and moisturizing my legs. “And I can’t promise the elastic won’t chafe your neckline” (these are high pants, folks). I glanced down at my calves, the one patch of stubble I’d missed with the razor blowing in the breeze created by the space heater under my desk.

“You might be my new best friend,” I replied, and brought home the maternity pants with a new bounce in my step.

I couldn’t wait to try them. I yanked off my sundress (entirely inappropriate for Monday, with its thunderstorms and a high of forty-eight degrees, and thank you so much for that, New England) in the kitchen. I pulled on the slacks and took a deep breath.

They were the most comfortable pants I’d ever worn in my life.

I was a mix of emotion: tears of relief pricked my eyes at the coziness I was feeling as the elastic cradled my healing incisions; a surge of anger coursed through my veins as I realized that by not having children, I’d denied myself the luxury of maternity pants for over four decades. I never wanted to take them off again.

“I see you’re in the pants!” My coworker said the next morning. “How’re they working out?”

“Shhh,” I said, holding up a finger, my ear to the phone. “I’m calling my old best friend right now to fire them as a bestie. Also, I think we’re now at a point in our relationship when I can honestly admit I love you.”

“I might have more,” she said. “Want me to look?”

Angels. I work with angels.

Don't judge me. These things are fabulous.

Computer Glitch

Vacation Etiquette

Let It Grow

Writer's Block

Pants

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