My hometown of Rochester, New York has been given a variety of nicknames over the years. Before 1850, it was known as “Flour City” due to the more than 20 flour mills situated along the Genesee River. In fact, at the time, Rochester was the largest flour producer in the world.
Later, it was dubbed “Flower City,” since the world’s largest seed company, Ellwanger & Barry Nursery, was located here. The name “Flower City” continued to be a good fit after the inception of Rochester’s Lilac Festival (an annual May event). For more about the Lilac Festival and wonderful Highland Park, where it’s held, be sure to read my post, Lucky To Live in the ROC (Part 2).
Another of Rochester’s monikers over the years has been “Image City.” That’s because, not only were Kodak, Xerox, and Bausch & Lomb founded here, but George Eastman’s estate at 900 East Avenue is the world’s oldest photography museum, housing over a million objects in its photography and cinematography collections. And, like its city, this site also has three names: the George Eastman Museum, the George Eastman House, and the International Museum of Photography and Film.
As you might have guessed, Rochester is teeming with photographers, professional and amateur alike. I’m sure that’s part of what’s behind my interest in photography today.
I recently visited some of Rochester’s parks with my camera, and I’ll be posting photos here and on my Photos page. Here’s a little sample:
So, whether you call it Flour City, Flower City, or Image City, this city of mine is a pretty good place to be in spring, especially if you’re a visual person like me.
Don’t forget: Please click on “Photos” in my menu to see more scenes from my hometown, and let me know if you have a burning desire to purchase a download or print.
I’m trying to write another blog post – really, I am – but some noisy birds outside my window keep interrupting me. Quiet down! I’m trying to think!
Just kidding. I love birds. In fact, I just moved out to the sunporch so I can hear them better. I’m hoping for some avian inspiration.
Nothing’s coming to me, though. Oh well, no pressure. It’s not like it’s been 100 days since my last blog post or anything. Or … has it? Uh-oh. I guess it’s time to do what every self-respecting blogger has had to resort to at some point in their career: copy and paste someone else’s tweets!
[The following is a full transcript of what I heard next.]
Cardinal: “Hi, Robbie. Glad you told us about this place. The food here at International House of Birdseed is primo!”
Robin: “You’ve got that right, Red. But by food, don’t you mean ‘grub’?”
Cardinal: “Right. I forgot you prefer those creepy crawlers. Oh look, here comes Jay!”
Blue jay: “Ah-ha! I knew I’d find you two characters here. And who’s this coming in for a landing? Could it be … Rose?”
Rose-breasted grosbeak: “Guys! This place is really hoppin’!”
Robin: “Yeah, and we’re all so diverse. Blue, yellow, red, black, white …”
House sparrow: “And brown! Don’t forget about us!”
Squirrel: “Yeah! That’s right!”
Grackle: “Move over, Squeaky … you’re on my patch of grass.”
Squirrel: “Oops, sorry big fella. Okay, enough with the small talk. Let’s eat. The food here is SO good.”
Cardinal: “And it’s all natural!”
Red-bellied woodpecker: “Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! You can say that again! The lady here doesn’t allow those nasty chemicals anywhere near the place. I can tell because there are SO MANY bugs up here in the trees.”
Chickadee: “That’s right, Woody. And dandelions, too. I can see them from here. There must be a million of them.”
Grackle: “Yeah, Dee. Not like next door. The lawn over there looks like a golf course, but don’t ever try and eat it. Eww!”
Blue jay: “I came across an interesting article about pesticides the other day while gazing down at someone’s iPhone.”
Rose-breasted grosbeak: “You can read?”
Blue jay: “Sure! We corvids are quite intelligent. Just go to birds.com if you don’t believe me. Anyway, according to the Audubon Society’s website, ‘It is estimated that approximately 7 million wild birds are killed each year due to the aesthetic use of pesticides by homeowners.’ ”
Chickadee: “Yikes! I’ll stick to this lady’s yard for sure!”
Robin: “All I know is, the worms taste much better over here at this establishment. And speaking of the lady – is that her in the window? I think she’s on to us. Quick! Switch back to bird talk!”
Squirrel: “What about me?”
Robin: “Just keep your mouth shut until she leaves. Can you do that?”
Squirrel: “I’ll try!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Unfortunately, I couldn’t understand anything they said after they’d spotted me. I’ll have to be more clandestine in the future. So for now, I still don’t have anything to write about. But I did manage to snap a couple of photos!
I love coincidences – apparently unrelated events that become connected, otherwise known as synchronicity. Well, this morning a coincidence popped up, and it was perfectly in sync with my day.
Let me set the stage.
It’s 10:30 on a Sunday morning. I’m still in my fuzzy pink bathrobe. My hair’s a mess. I have raccoon eyes, probably, although I haven’t checked myself in the mirror yet. I’m hiding behind an open door.
Image by Piyapong Saydaung @ Pixabay
What could possibly explain my situation, and my unkempt appearance?
It’s simply this: I was up late last night. I couldn’t help it. I’d spent hours reading. Playing guitar. Watching TV.
Doing a crossword puzzle, browsing YouTube, researching a literary agent online.
Cutting my hair.
Combing through my possessions for doodads to enhance my vendor table at a book fair next weekend.
And cleaning out two closets that suddenly seemed to be jam-packed with clothes I couldn’t believe I’d actually spent good money on, and never wear anymore.
Just an average Saturday night.
Is it any surprise, then, to find me cowering behind my back door late Sunday morning, with one extended hand on my dog’s leash, the other on the doorknob, awaiting the moment we were both safely back inside the house? I wasn’t hung over, just hung UP on one horrifying thought: What if my neighbors see me?
I knew if that happened, and if they asked if I was okay, I probably shouldn’t dive into the litany of activities I’ve just revealed to you: the playing, watching, puzzling, researching, cutting, combing and cleaning I’d spent hours on the night before. Better to just utter a simple excuse before ducking back inside my house. But what could I say? The words “I’m an artist” suddenly sprang to mind. After all, artists are allowed to stay up late and sleep in the next day.
But is that true? I asked myself. AM I an artist? No, absolutely not. Not really. Well, maybe. I just wasn’t sure.
Image by ArtsyBee @ Pixabay
Do artists cower behind doors, dressed in fuzzy pink bathrobes?
Why yes, I suddenly remembered, they do! I’d seen Michael Douglas do just that in Wonder Boys, where he plays an English teacher trying to write a novel. His bathrobe was fuzzy! And pink! (I think it was his wife’s, but that’s beside the point.) Hmm. The idea of calling myself an artist was starting to seem more plausible.
I ate a big breakfast, still ensconced in my robe, after which I listened to the audiobook I’d begun recently: Miracle and Wonder, by Malcolm Gladwell – an extended interview with musician Paul Simon.
When I came to the part where Simon was asked about his motivation to experiment with music, I was stopped in my tracks by his response:
I really didn’t like being called an artist. Until I was in my 40s, I didn’t accept that. I just felt like, no, I’m not an artist. And when I was in my 40s, I took courses around the time of Graceland … I said, well, actually, I AM an artist. It doesn’t mean I’m a GOOD artist, it’s just a personality type. Some people make up stuff all the time, they can’t help it, they make it up. But, you know, it doesn’t mean you’re a … you could be a bad artist, you could be a great artist! But it’s a kind of a type of person. – Paul Simon
I laughed out loud when I heard that! There’s your answer, I told myself. Paul Simon just spoke to you! Paul Simon had imposter syndrome, and he overcame it. And you should, too. You ARE an artist!
I’m no longer going to hide behind a figurative door, fearing to call myself an artist. No, I’m going to wave my fuzzy pink flag proudly. My art might not be great, or even good, but I AM making stuff up (and enjoying the process).
By now you’re probably wondering what selection of songs, TV shows, and books could possibly have kept me up and interested until the wee hours of Sunday morning. Well, here they are, in no particular order:
TV: The final episode of the Netflix series, All the Light We Cannot See. It’s just beautiful, all the way through. Great acting within a story that’s simultaneously deep, dark, and uplifting, based on Anthony Doerr’s lyrical, Pulitzer prize-winning novel by the same name. The blind woman who plays the part of Marie beat out thousands of sight-impaired actors for the role, despite the fact that she’d had no previous acting experience or training. And it was her first audition! Now that’s an artist!
Hardcover book: The List of Things that Never Change, by Rebecca Stead. It’s a wonderful book written for middle grade kids, about a girl with two dads who sees a shrink, wishes she had a sister, and never gets 10 out of 10 on a spelling test (and therefore never gets to eat lunch with her teacher on Fridays). That’s all I know about it so far, and it’s so good I had a hard time putting it down last night.
Audiobook: Miracle and Wonder, by Malcolm Gladwell. I highly recommend it for anyone who’s interested in music, creativity, songwriting, or Paul Simon.
Songs: The songs I practiced on my guitar (26 altogether) before watching TV included ones written by Gordon Lightfoot, Paul Simon, Steve Goodman, Neil Young, Bob Dylan, The Beatles, Jill Sobule, and me. I spent a significant portion of the time listening to recordings of Paul Simon playing Homeward Bound and Still Crazy, trying to copy his fingerings (but not succeeding too well). Nonetheless, the act of listening to the chords and trying to break them down into individual notes is, for me, both fascinating and rewarding.
Crossword Puzzle: The Sunday New York Times. It was around 12:05 a.m., and technically Sunday morning, when I started it. I finished it today during breakfast.
YouTube: After searching “how to set up book festival vendor table,” I watched How to Create the Best Vendor Booth for a Pop-Up Shop by Monica Razak, and it inspired me to run around the house searching for props for displaying my books, crafts, business cards, etc. This somehow led to the cleaning out of closets. I’m not sure why. An artist works in mysterious ways.
Recap: In Episodes 1 and 2, I told you how a turtle made me think reptiles were cute, how an endangered iguana made me write a song about reptile conservation, and how that song became a video and a book.
And now, in Episode 3, you’ll learn about how a lizard made me write another song, video, and book … and all about my upcoming visit to IguanaLand!
I’m a desert spiny lizard, but you can call me “DSL,”
Oh, I’m a desert spiny lizard, but you can call me “DSL,”
My life is hot and dusty … all this crawlin’ in the desert ain’t swell!
That’s how my song, “Desert Spiny Lizard Blues,” begins, and it just gets more blue after that. You can check it out for yourself here.
I really can’t remember what inspired me to write a song about a lizard, so, once again, I’m going to pin the blame on a reptile – probably the one whose photo graces the cover of my latest children’s book, “I’m a Desert Spiny Lizard.”
Yes, that’s right. I wrote a book about a lizard – because once “Desert Spiny Lizard Blues” was written, recorded, and uploaded to YouTube, I felt compelled to create a children’s book to go with it, much as I’d done with my song, “I’m an Iguana.”
Unexpectedly, I now have two reptile books for kids under my belt, and they’re packed with factual information that I learned from reptile experts. I’m proud to announce that I’ll be offering both of these cute, fun, and educational reptile books for sale at the 3rd annual IguanaFest in Punta Gorda, Florida this weekend!
Not only that, but I’ll be selling my own handmade reptile-themed holiday ornaments to go with the books.
It’s true. I’ve gone reptile-crazy. When I first laid eyes on this adorable reptile-themed fabric, I couldn’t resist buying the whole two yards that were left on the bolt, even though I had no idea what I would do with it. Eventually, the idea of making felt holiday ornaments came to me.
So you see, not only have reptiles managed to coerce me into writing songs and books about them, posed for photographs, and demanded to appear in videos, but now they’re even sending me out of state to a reptile FESTIVAL, at the largest reptile zoo in the world (a.k.a. “IguanaLand”).
What’s next? Will a reptile make me write another episode for this blog series? Probably. I’m sure they’ll want you to find out what IguanaFest was like.
Stay tuned for the exciting final episode of A Reptile Made Me Do It!
Recap: In Episode 1, we learned all about my close encounters of the reptile kind – starting with my childhood pet, Elvis the turtle, and progressing to all of the snakes and lizards (no, that’s not a euphemism) that I encountered while living in Tucson, Arizona.
And now the moment you’ve been waiting for: Episode 2, in which you will learn what a reptile actually made me do.
It was 2018, and I was meeting with my writing critique partners, Elaine A. Powers and Susan Oyler. We meet biweekly to tear apart kindly support each other’s writing efforts. Elaine (author, biologist, and conservationist) had just mentioned something about an iguana.
“Rock iguanas are endangered on the Cayman Islands,” she told us. “They could use our help.”
She was talking about Cyclura nubila caymanensis, a.k.a. the Sister Isles iguana. Its population is dwindling significantly due to human actions like construction, the introduction of invasive animals, and careless driving.
“But what can I do from here?” I wondered. And then it hit me. I could write a song! I’m no Bob Dylan, but I do believe that when the times they are a-changin’, it might be time for a new tune.
A frog is an amphibian, not a reptile.
Perhaps it was my childhood exposure to my brother’s pet reptiles that had something to do with it. Or maybe tiny Elvis (who’d “left the building” several years prior) was calling to me from wherever turtles go when they die.
Anyway, I got to work.
First, I stole the melody from a song I’d already written.* If you steal from yourself, it isn’t really stealing, is it?
(* Note: THAT song, the one I stole from, is on Facebook. I wrote it for my brother and sister-in-law as a housewarming gift. If you’re on Facebook, you can watch my sister Sue (flute) and I performing it here:
Next, I added lyrics about an iguana who’s being run off the road by bad drivers.
After recording the new song, “I’m an Iguana,” (with Chuck Phillips on keyboard), Elaine’s illustrator created a video to go with it, and it was uploaded to Elaine’s YouTube channel. You can view it here:
I think it turned out really cute – almost as cute as Elvis the turtle.
And because so many people seemed to like the song, I didn’t just stop there. I used most of the lyrics for “I’m an Iguana” in a picture book, “Iguana in the Road,” illustrated by Diane Ronning and published in 2023. You can learn more about it here:
So you see, it’s true. When it comes to one of my latest songs, videos, and books, I’m not really responsible. No, a reptile – specifically, Cyclura nubila caymanensis, the Sister Isles iguana – the “Iguana in the Road” – made me do it.
And, in the next exciting episode of “A Reptile Made Me Do It,” you’ll learn about how ANOTHER reptile made me produce a song, a video, and a book. Stay tuned for the “Desert Spiny Lizard Blues.”
This is the story of how a reptile motivated me to write two songs and four books. Yes, that’s right! A reptile made me do it!
How, you ask, did a critter known for tucking its head into its shell become my muse? Well, it’s a long story, but I might as well pull my head out of my – er – shell, and start telling it.
As a young child, I was never particularly drawn to reptiles. Don’t get me wrong. I thought Elvis, our tiny pet turtle, was very cute, in a turtley kind of way.
See what I mean?
And I liked most other animals. I loved dogs, cats, and birds. I once caught a salamander with my bare hands. I didn’t mind picking up nightcrawlers and threading their wriggling bodies onto fishhooks. But I wasn’t about to pet a lizard or a snake.
No, I wasn’t enraptured by scaly reptiles the way my little brother Rafa was. In fact, he had two pet snakes. He kept them in his bedroom. I never entered his bedroom after that.
Maybe that was why Rafa kept snakes in his bedroom.
Here’s me at age 12, after accidentally entering his room while sleepwalking:
Just kidding. I didn’t really mind the snakes, as long as they stayed in their glass cases, which they did. I figured it was just a phase my brother was going through.
But it wasn’t just a phase. He continued to be fascinated by reptiles, and has cared for many more over the years. It’s true. Just ask his pet newt, Figgy.
Eventually, he – my brother, not Figgy – became a vertebrate zoologist, a scientist who studies animals with backbones.
And speaking of backbones, I’ve managed to grow a pretty strong one when it comes to seeing snakes and lizards. I sort of had to, after moving to Tucson. Snake encounters are pretty common there.
During my first month in Tucson, I saw two rattlesnakes sunning themselves in my apartment complex parking lot. I came upon at least three while hiking, and another while riding my bike. Once, a rattler even reared up and rattled at my hiking partner and me. I learned to stay calm during these experiences, and to give them a wide berth.
Then there were the lizards. They were everywhere outdoors, including on walking paths built for humans. They were never underfoot, though, and never a threat. I’m sure they were more afraid of me than I was of them.
I knew I was a real Tucsonan when I finally learned to tell some of the different lizard species apart. I even photographed them, when they weren’t moving too fast. In fact, I put some of those photos in my latest book, “I’m a Desert Spiny Lizard.”
But now I’m getting ahead of myself. I need to explain how I went from having a pet turtle named Elvis to writing two songs and four books about reptiles, and I’m not doing a very good job of that.
I think it’s because I like looking up silly pictures of animals and sticking them in my posts.
Right now, I need to go give some love to my pet, a dog named Maya. I’ll be back with Episode 2 soon, in which you will learn how I met a reptile conservationist who, along with Elvis, inspired me to write my first song about a reptile.
I guess I’m officially an author now. At least that’s what I’m told. I mean, I have written a few books, and published them, and people can read them. So there’s that.
And official authors need official author websites. So now I’ve got one. It’s called “Lori’s Stories,” and if that sounds familiar, just look up at the top of this page and you’ll see that it’s not that different from my current site. Clever, huh?
I’d like to thank you for following my blog here at WordPress. But my plan is to eventually transition completely over to the new site. So, if you want to continue to follow me in the future (and I really hope you will!) just do this:
Click loribonati.com, then click the Contact tab, and enter your contact info. I’ll respond right away and add you to my subscriber list. Easy peasy.
I have one more request. My new books need reviews and ratings, so I’m offering a FREE e-book to anyone who will write an honest review of it on Amazon and/or Goodreads. This applies to any of my books, which include:
Iguana in the Road — A cute and colorful rhyming picture book for kids about endangered iguanas, with a “Fascinating Iguana Facts” section in the back. Illustrated by Tucson artist Diane Ronning.
Words with Sisters — Co-written with my sister, Susan Rabideau. This is another book of funny poems, and was inspired by the game “Words With Friends.”
Standing in the Surf— a personal photo journal covering the Pacific northwest area known as the Salish Sea.
My new author site, loribonati.com, will have a few more features than this one currently does, plus it will focus more on my writing life. I hope to see you there soon.
Maya (formerly Trundoe) is one of 39 dogs (plus 1 cat) who were removed from a Tucson home in 2020. It was on the news.
When the dogs arrived at the animal shelter, they were dirty, matted, and probably hungry. Some had worn down teeth caused by chewing on their metal crates. At least one had serious eye problems. After being washed, shaved, spayed, neutered, and microchipped (and some teeth pulled), they were all put up for adoption.
The house was ultimately condemned.
I’d been looking for a dog. One day, the shelter called and said they might have a good match. “She’s small and cute,” they said. I’d wanted a medium-sized dog, but I decided to meet her anyway. Best decision of my life.
At the shelter, I sat on a couch and waited for Maya to be brought in to meet me. “She didn’t really want to be put on the leash, so go slow,” the animal care technician told me. Maya promptly jumped up on the couch, held out her paw, and coyly placed it on my hand as if to ask, “Do you come here often?” My preconceived notions about small dogs flew out the window. This one was a keeper. I brought her home the following day. Here she is that day:
It took her a bit of time to adjust. For weeks, she did little but hide under my bed. But she’s a different dog now. She’s gained 4 pounds (a good weight for her, up from her initial 12) and has now learned to walk on a leash, sit, and stay (all of which she didn’t seem to know how to do when I first got her). Sometimes she’ll even perform the combo sit/stay, but only when she’s in the right mood.
She now responds appropriately to “treat,” “food,” “bed,” “couch,” “go home,” and “inside,” so I have to assume she’s a language genius. Although it’s true that she usually plays dumb when I say “come here,” I know she understands me. How can I possibly know that? A BFF can always tell.
She still likes to hide under my bed, where she’s ripped my brand-new wool rug to shreds – but only under the bed where nobody will notice except me. (She’s a very thoughtful dog.)
And speaking of thoughtful, she observes me from a distance while I prepare her morning meal, only chowing down after I’ve started in on my own breakfast.
Maya is a night owl, napping during the day but preferring to go for walks after sunset. Her favorite thing to do in the dark is waking me up at 4 a.m with a vigorous shake of her tags. This morning it was 3 a.m. What was I saying before about her being thoughtful?
She doesn’t seem to know what toys are for, but she will chase blueberries that I roll across the floor to her. I think we’ll graduate to large blueberries next, and then perhaps cherry tomatoes. Maybe she’ll be ready for tennis balls someday.
She cried loudly the first time she rode in a car with me, convincing me that it was her maiden voyage, but she soon became my quiet, patient travel buddy as we made our epic move across 2,800 miles of highway from Arizona to New York two years ago. She never slept a wink in the car – she just stared at the back of her seat, occasionally giving me a nervous, sideways glance as if to ask, “Are we there yet?”
Her face is very expressive. She has her “I need to go out” stare, her “it’s bedtime” gaze, her “aren’t you forgetting my treat,” look, and that adorably crooked smile when she’s really enjoyed her meal.
Oh yes, she definitely smiles. I swear she even laughs! Silently, of course. And sometimes, if I’m lucky, I’ll hear her softly grunting with satisfaction as she gently removes a treat from my hand and goes scampering away with it.
Maya’s recent DNA results revealed that she’s mostly Chihuahua, poodle, and miniature Schnauzer, with 6 other breeds thrown in. But the best part about having her DNA tested was that I found a close relative – her sister (or possibly her mother), whose adoptive name is Sadie Nella Mae M’Lady Moonbeam Marshmallow Huffington (a.k.a. Say-Say). They’re a 50% match. It’s been fun comparing notes with Say-Say’s human. Both dogs are shy, sweet, nocturnal hiders-under-beds who love cuddles and treats.
And now it’s time to take Maya for her birthday walk, if I can get her to “come here.” Happy birthday, Maya, and many more!!
It began yesterday, when I met with Rory Fitzpatrick (Irondequoit, NY Town Supervisor) and Shannon Grieve (Irondequoit Recreation Department Director) for a congratulatory event. I was being recognized for having come up with the name for my town’s new quarterly Activity Guide/Newsletter.
I even had my picture taken, and I received a sweet “swag bag,” too, complete with a blanket, pad, pen, holiday ornament, extra bag, and not one but two water bottles. I felt like a celebrity.
The word “Irondequoit” derives from the Iroquois word “gerundegut,” which in English means “where the land and waters meet.”
The name I’d submitted for the publication, “Eye on Irondequoit,” was one of 25 entries, and Shannon said mine was the clear winner. The town even designed a new newsletter logo to go with the name: a round lens looking out toward the Rochester Harbor Light, a local landmark where Irondequoit Bay meets Lake Ontario.
After taking my swag out of my swag bag, and reading the origin of the word “Irondequoit” that was written on the outside of the bag, I got to wondering about the origin of the word “swag.” And my search for the answer to this question eventually led me full circle, as you will see.
I found as many definitions of swag as there were items in my swag bag (seven). According to the internet, “swag” can mean:
the act of swaying or lurching,
self-confidence,
a style of drapery,
money,
stolen goods,
the shape of one’s stomach,
or free promotional items.
In fact, the Merriam-Webster Dictionary hails the word “swag” as one of the most “polysemous” words in the English language. I had to look up “polysemous.” It’s just another way of saying “having multiple meanings.”
To make things even more confusing, there are several different explanations for the origin of the word “swag.” It might come from:
Old Norse sveggja (to swing or sway);
Old English swingan (to swing)
Middle English swaggen, swagen, swoggen (probably from Old Norse — see above)
Norwegian svaga (to sway, swing, stagger)
18th century British thieves’ slang
It might even be related to the root word swage, which had to do with the bending of cold metal, which in turn came from the French suer (to sweat).
According to the fact-checking website Snopes, the word swag has been falsely rumored to be an acronym for phrases such as:
Stuff We All Get
Stuff We Ain’t Got
Scientific Wild Arsed Guess
Souvenirs, Wearables, And Gifts
Sold Without A Guarantee
Secretly We Are Gay
Snopes also tells us that, in Australia, a swag can be a bundle of belongings, and, in addition, a large quantity of something.
I’ve read that the first written use of the word “swagger” wasn’t until the late 16th century:
Puck: “What hempen home-spuns have we swaggering here, so near the cradle of the fairy queen?”
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, “A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM”
And, last but not least, the word “swag” has been referred to as the 2011 Hip-Hop Word of the Year.
But MY first encounter with the word “swag” was on the TV show Parks and Recreation, where my favorite character, Tom Haverford, created a business called “Rent-A-Swag.”
And as I was writing that last paragraph, I realized I’ve come full circle, because I began with my meeting with the Recreation Department Director — my own town’s version of Leslie Knope. (Parks and Recreation fans will know who she is.)
Don’t you just love it when things come full circle? And now I think I’ll go and fill up my Irondequoit Rec water bottle, grab my Irondequoit Rec blanket, and go to the park. Either that, or I’ll take my swag bag into the living room, park myself in front of the TV, and watch an old episode of Parks and Recreation.
Today, I’d like to share my experiences setting up my new website, loribonati.com.
The site is hosted by a company whose name rhymes with WhoaDaddy. I’ll refer to them as WhoaDaddy for the remainder of this post, because it seems appropriate. It’s been a wild ride. In fact, I could have used some reins.
After choosing a photo and writing a blurb for my home page, my next task was to select a layout design known as a “theme.”The choices were slim, but I quickly found one I liked. It had plenty of white space, something website designers recommend.
I then went about choosing colors for my theme. Or actually, color, singular. After selecting my first color (green), I couldn’t figure out how to choose another one.
Since I really would have preferred some accent colors, I contacted WhoaDaddy last night. That’s when things got a bit rough.
“Can I add more colors to my theme?” I asked via their chat line.
Hello, Lori. You are augustanahouston.org, right?
“No. I’ve never even heard of them. Is that a website?” (I then looked it up … it’s a church in Houston, Texas!)
Oh, my apologies. Are you loribonati.com?
“Yes.”
How can I make your day even better?
Suffice it to say that my day didn’t get better.
I needed to ask my question a number of times before I got a clear answer. First, I was told that I could add more colors by moving a simple slider across my screen toward a word that said “Colorful.” I’d already tried that, with no success, but I tried again. All that did was change light green to dark green.
The technician took control of my screen remotely. I was hopeful.
How’s that?
The background was now pitch black. There was absolutely no white space on the screen.
“I said I wanted a variety of colors,” I said, and then, feeling the need to be really obvious, I added, “like a rainbow of colors.”
Oh, for more colors, you will need to upgrade to a different plan.
“What do these plans cost?” I wanted to know.
And I had to ask that question more than once before I was directed to another screen that showed four different plan options. They were not unlike those data plans that seem designed to confuse. There was even some sales pressure. Maybe I was just tired. But not too tired to notice that there was a two-year agreement.
Do I have to sign up for two years? I asked.
Oh, no! We do allow you to sign up for just one year if you like.
Well, why didn’t you say so, I wanted to ask. But I kept my cool.
“No thanks, I’ll just keep my current plan for now,” I said.
“That’s fine. The decision is up to you, and we respect that.” Hmm. That wasn’t really necessary. Of course it’s my decision!
Later that night, I took another look at my site. My one and only blog post, “Shameless Wordling,” had disappeared from the site.
It was still there when I hit the “edit” button, but I couldn’t re-publish it because it said it was already published. I quickly dialed up WhoaDaddy on the chat line again.
“What happened to my blog post?” I asked.
An hours-long scenario followed, in which my blog post was located by a technician who then replaced it with one from The Food Network.
And I didn’t even like the recipes.
Please delete those food pictures asap,” I implored. At least that was taken care of quickly … or so I thought.
After that, the person on the line said she couldn’t help me further. She referred the problem to an advanced team and said it would be corrected within 24 hours.
The next morning:
I checked my site. My blog post was still in limbo, but at least I didn’t see the Food Network pictures anymore. I contacted WhoaDaddy again and was immediately transferred and placed on hold for 30 minutes, while music that I’d opted out of kept playing anyway. Someone finally came on the line, and I asked if he could locate my blog post and republish it.
Yes, I see it. It’s making me hungry!!
He was looking at the Food Network pictures.
I wondered if my post was showing up on the Food Network’s website. Maybe I’d be famous. I anticipated getting hundreds of emails inquiring about the cookbook I’m writing.
I checked my email. I’d gotten only one. It was from WhoaDaddy, and it asked me to rate the experience I’d had with the person who’d put me on hold.
I actually felt sorry for the hungry technician when I had to break it to him that those recipes weren’t mine. He sounded surprised and maybe a bit panicky, so I quickly reassured him that I still had a backup of my blog post. I could sense his palpable relief.
Perhaps because I’d put him in a good mood, he quickly and efficiently managed to locate my missing post by checking my history, and he then restored it to my site.
So, the bottom line is that all is well – for now, anyway.
I just hope I’m not mistaken for a church lady again. That could be a problem … or maybe a miracle, if my cookbook gets picked up by the Food Network.
loristory 