Monday, May 24, 2010

Whiskeymarie v. the Internets- kind of like Alien v. Predator, but with more gore.

So...yeah.  That whole "losing my blog" thingy?

Not so much fun as I thought it would be.

It started out simple enough- I was checking my sitemeter for the first time in a looooong time, and I started seeing some strange links appear- links that started giving me the sneaking suspicion that something was amiss with my beloved baby,  (Not the usual weirdness that you'd expect, like people googling "monkey scat play" or "pudding underpants" and ending up here, though there was plenty of that as well.  Thankfully some things will never change.)

I clicked on one suspicious item to find an auction site, RUN BY MY DOMAIN HOST, where my beloved domain was on the block, for sale to the highest bidder.  The bidding was up to $405, and much to my delight, I saw that the auction ended in less than two days from that point.

The best way I can sum up the situation and my feelings from that point on is this:

I spent about 52 hours on the phone and online from then on, hysterically trying to convey my problem to various tech people in that high-pitched way that highly-strung women with aggression issues will tend to convey these sorts of things.  I feel especially bad for the genuinely nice guy who had to listen to my "THIS IS BULLSHIT" speech.  More than once.  In the same phone call.  I'm pretty sure there is a picture of me somewhere at the GoDa**y headquarters right now with numerous darts in it.   What can I say- I don't handle this sort of stuff very well, I guess.

The worst part was the lag time between my questions/issues and the responses.  Some e-mails (all phone calls were followed-up with e-mails) were returned with the hour, some took 48+ hours to get any sort of response.  Couple that with my frustration in trying to find information that I never really thought would be so damn critical so I of course filed it away somewhere under "you'll never find this again, you dumb twat" and had to try and search out the information online, armed with nothing but a bucket of possible passwords and a few glasses of cheap white wine.

And then, to top it all off, once the auction deadline came and went, I still had no idea the fate of  my little home here.  No e-mails.  Nada.  Nope.  It wasn't until the following Tuesday (this all started on Thursday) that I finally learned that I was indeed still the headmistress of this little corner of my world.  I would not be sold off to that erotic lunchbox company in South Korea.  Yay?

Unfortunately, in that "gray area" of time, I had to make a few decisions, the most critical one being what to do with my content so that it didn't end up in the hands of black-market blog peddlers.  It felt strange, but once I imported the info over to my new domain, I click-click-clicked a few times and poof!
Deleted everything. Bye bye.

It was strangely refreshing. 

I also stupidly assumed that I could export it all back over once the dust settled, if need be.  Man, was I wrong.  So, until Blogger fixes a "known issue" that has been "known" since December of last year, you'll need to go to the new blog for my archives.  Such is life.  Let's just consider it a fresh start, of sorts.  Kind of like putting on clean underpants midway through a 95 degree day- you know they're gonna eventually stink as much as the last pair, but for a few brief, shining moments you can enjoy feeling and smelling somewhat fresh.

So, yeah.  Six days, $200+, fourteen bottles of wine and several less years of my life later, I can say that I fought the man and I won.  Sort of.

I'm glad to still be here, my little chickadees.  Once I figure out my redecorating plans here, I'll get links back up and such and such.  I've been a bit m.i.a. lately, mostly due to the fact that, after spending 2-3 hours trying to retrieve my old posts every stinking day with zero success, I had no patience or energy for much else, online-wise.  Now that I've given up trying I can re-focus my energies.

That's my new motto, I think: When all else fails, give it the fuck up already, will you?

Amen.  A-fuckingmen.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Who knew that one could wage war while simply sitting on one's ass, typing furiously?

Well folks, somehow I managed to win my Quixote-esque battle against the corporate powers that be.  I'm still not entirely sure how it happened, since my eyes and brain are glazed over from sitting in front of the com-pu-tor for the last 5+ days exchanging ridonkulous e-mails & phone calls (Oh! the phone calls!) with various tech support people and rifling through mountains of crap in my desk/house to find long-forgotten log-ins, passwords, and my first born cat's blood type (Q-positive).  I'll tell you the story once I figure out a way to re-launch Ms. Whiskeymarie VonPartypants without severe rug burns or acute loss of underpants. 

I guess I'm back? 

(If anyone cares, I'm still keeping  Not sure where I'm going with it yet, but feel free to add it to your reader/daily perusals/FBI watch list, if you are so inclined.)

Friday, May 14, 2010

Something completely unplanned and unwanted, much like that one cousin of yours.

So sorry if you missed the fantastical tale of how was hijacked by corporate terrorists, ripped from my bosom and thrust into the uncaring hands of total strangers, but unless something significant happens in the next hour or so, this blog is no more.

Oh, don't cry my little chickpea- I hate to see you all red-faced and snotty like that.  Seriously- that's a good look for no one.  How about instead you come to my new home?  It's still under construction and completely inadequate right now, much like a FEMA trailer in New Orleans, but it is my new home nonetheless.

If you venture over to marietimesthree(dot)com, I'll do my best to make this a smooth transition for us all, even if I have to slip you a roofie or ply you with grain alcohol.  (If that address is still in transition, e-mail me and I'll give you the info).

Happy new blog, my faithful little nuggets of awesomeness.  Happy new blog.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Whiskey row the erg ashore, hallelujah!

I'm terribly sorry to have left up my birthday post for 47 days. No, I wasn't trying to milk it (OK, maybe a little) for sympathy/gifts/love/butt squeezes, I just got redonkulously busy with work and life in general. Bad news is, I'm still kind o' busy until tomorrow, good news is that after tomorrow I'm off until JUNE FIRST, SUCKAS!!!

God, I love my job. (bows head in shame for gloating. Notices something shiny in the other room, runs off.)

(comes back with a ball of used foil)

Remember when I said I was signing up for a rowing class?

Well, I've been to one already and now the second class is tonight. We spent day 1 learning how not to kill ourselves by trying to breakdance in the boat in the middle of the Mississippi, and then we practiced our mad rowin' skillz on one of these:

They call it an "erg"- I think that's short for "ergotron" or "ergalicious" or something. Alls I know is, the ergotron kicked my ASS. But I loved it- I'm a masochist like that.
I tried starting a round of "Michael row the boat ashore" with the other newbie rowers, but they just smiled politely and stared at the wall in front of us for the remainder of the training. No one made eye contact with me after that.

Tonight we actually go out on the river in a training boat they call the Barge. In my head I'm calling it "Large Marge's Barge"

I'm super excited. If I live through it/don't accidentally kill everyone on the boat, I'll let you know how it was tomorrow.

Oh, and I got some turtly awesome bee-day gifties that I'll tell you about as well. Unless you'd rather I talk about my lady-bits again, whatever.

Happy Turdsday, my little boats filled with love and gummi bears. Happy Turdsday.


Monday, May 3, 2010

Suck it up, put on yer monkey hat and have a day, damnit!

Yeah, it's my farkin birthday.

I actually kind of forgot about it this year, being that I'm busy like a hooker bee on honey day and on account that I'm turning the regrettable age of thirtyfreakingnine.

In honor of the occasion, I'll sing you the song I sing my cat, Millie, on a near-daily basis.
(Imagine this in the key of G and sung in a castrato-falsetto voice)


"Her name is Millie,
she is so silly,
if she were a pickle she'd be dilly,
if she were a movie she'd be Free Willy,
if she were a horse she'd be a filly,
if she were a landscape she'd be hilly,
if she were a criminal she'd be kind of killy,
if she was a president's brother she'd be Billy,
if she were a flower she'd be a lily,
if she were cheap fabric she'd be quite pilly,
if she was a feather she'd be quilly,
if she was a Valley girl she'd be all "Really?"
if she was an actress she'd be Meg Tilly,

if she were any cuter I'd eat her for dinner. Yup."

Now, it's time to put on my party hat and display the appropriate attitude befitting a misfit 39 year-old who would rather be scratching her ass with a rose bush than having another damn birthday.