Stop twiddling and get a life!

I launched the Hellish Handbasket Blog in January of 2012 as I was headed into one of my many recurring dark nights of my soul: my interminable pursuit of a terminal degree. I wanted a place to lighten my load by dumping my emotional ballast, as it were. And I must say, this blog has served me well as a listening post, absorbing my chronic whining and transmitting my frothy yearnings into the blogosphere.

And lo, the blogosphere has responded. Over time, I have built a modest following consisting of a handful of friends and relatives and a few strangers from Latvia and China who cruise through for a minute or two, probably looking for a hole in the cyber dike. Well, that's Google's problem, not mine. In any case, I was getting a few dozens of page views (including maybe a few bonafide readers) per month and, considering this is an anonymous blog, I thought I was doing okay. And then I innocently posted a post about twiddling and everything changed.

When I was young, the word twiddling referred to an activity one did with one's thumbs. I hesitate to Google the term now, for fear of luring drooling hackers and sneaky viruses to my cyber door, but I'm pretty sure twiddling no longer means what it used to mean. If you look at all my posts from the last three years as bars in a vertical column chart, every post is as flat as lettuce in a vegetable garden except that one post, which is the One World Trade Center Tower of my blog. There is only one thing that could attract that kind of attention: sex.

Now, you could say I'm trying to capitalize on that one post's popularity by attempting to duplicate its energetic verve with this post. You could say that. But you would be wrong. Because I am not interested in attracting wackjobs and knuckleheads seeking to read about twiddling anything but the traditional thumbs. Whoa, I can see I'm going to get in trouble here. Honestly, I shudder to imagine all the things one can do with thumbs that I have never considered. But I'm not going there here, not today.

I just want to say, good grief, stop twiddling, whatever the hell that is, and get a life! I'm happy being an obscure anonymous blogger. I don't sell ad space on my site, so all your cavorting through my twiddling post is not netting me anything but a totally lopsided out of whack stats page! My other posts are infinitesimal specks compared to that one damn post. What the hell, you guys?

I suspect there is a mountain of spam aimed directly at my tiny anonymous blog being barely held back by a small army of Google minions somewhere in a data warehouse in Cupertino. I hope the cyber dike holds. Don't let go, cyber minions.

Meanwhile, I will continue blogging about the inconsequential minutiae of my days as I drift in and out of earning, writing, and networking. Boring stuff, I know, compared to sex. Maybe it would help to think of it as an invitation to use your imagination. Okay, I've said my part. Do with it what you will. I'm off to do some twiddling of my own. At last! The Walking Dead is in reruns.

Life before Google is not worth remembering

I posted the third revision to my concept paper a few days ago, and I've been checking my learner home page a couple times a day for a response. Today, there it is. (She's alive, alive!) The response was short: "Confirming receipt and sending to committee NLT tomorrow."

Here's where I get to reveal how naive I am when it comes to text messaging. You probably know what NLT means. I didn't, so I did what I always do when I don't know something (at least when my internet connection is working): I google it. (Is it grammatically acceptable yet to use Google as a verb?) I typed NLT into the search box and pressed enter. I got quite a list of possibilities. Here are a few.

New Living Translation. My hair stood on end, so I didn't click any of those links, but it's clear that this is biblical stuff. (Making universal crossed-fingers sign for warding off vampires.) It's true I don't know my chairperson very well. Maybe she is invoking a higher power? I'm OK with that. I need all the help I can get. Although it might not be a good sign for me if she is calling upon god in reference to my concept paper. If it is OK with you, Brava, I'm not going to link to any websites in a futile attempt to avoid giving them more Google ranking power.

NLT Building Products. The link took me to a funky little website for a Martinsville, Virginia, company that makes some special concrete blocks. "If you're a block molder interested in franchise opportunities, contact us!" Wow. What's a block molder? Does that job pay well? Do I need a Ph.D. to do that job?  Somehow I don't think my chair was referring to masonry. Maybe it's a metaphor, like, you need to build a better theoretical foundation.

Nonlinear Transmission. When a voltage waveform travels along the NLT, it apparently gets distorted. That means the waveform becomes sharper and you get faster transition times. (Are you following this?) "One application of NLT is a comb generator." If she is referring to this definition of NLT, she could be referring to how my brain processes information—or doesn't. Or she could be suggesting I need to focus on grooming, which is always a good idea (I do have a comb somewhere, although currently I have very little hair; see previous post). Or, because NLT is related to microwaves, she could be sensing my tea is cold. Time to heat it up in my monster microwave. Back in a sec.


Not Like Them. Hey, who knew? NLT was a boy band from the mid 2000s. I've never heard of them, but Wikipedia authors informed me that one of the members played Artie on Glee. (He's the character in the wheelchair.) I've seen that show before. Could my chair be making an obscure reference to glee, as in, be happy, I'm sending your concept paper to the committee? Or maybe she is obliquely indicating I'm a mental cripple? (Wouldn't be the first time that has happened.)


National Literacy Trust or Nepal Leprosy Trust. Take your pick. Either one works equally well. I'm either illiterate, or I have leprosy. Possibly both! I'm beginning to think my chairperson is remarkably perceptive.


Not Later Than. Oh, duh. LOL. ISS (I'm so stupid.)

What did we do before Google, I want to know? I don't remember life before Google, any more than I remember life before ATM machines, cell phones, and anti-lock brakes. Lying... I'm lying. You already know I'm 55. I'm lying when I say I don't remember. More like I don't want to remember. But how can I forget? 


I remember card catalogs and the Dewey Decimal System. I remember analog phones and party lines. I remember black and white televisions with tubes that you had to smack to get an image, and knobs you turned to stop the picture from flipping end over end. I remember the odometer on our 1960 Oldsmobile Delta 88 turned red when you hit 70 mph (Go, Dad, go faster!) I remember when you had to go inside a bank and talk to a live person to get your cash. I remember when girls couldn't wear pants to school. I remember Vestal Elementary, where Pat Carroll was my only African-American classmate (we called her a Negro back then), and Ronnie Lee was the only Asian. I remember when there was no such thing as soft contact lenses. I remember when to wear any jeans but Levi's 501s meant you were a loser. I remember life before toaster ovens and microwaves. 


I remember eating Play-doh in Sunday school and wishing I was anywhere but there. Good news. I am pretty sure Play-doh still exists, and I'm sadly all too certain that Sunday schools still exist, so if you want to experience a 50-year old memory (sort of like a re-enactment of pioneer days), you still can. I'm sure it will leave a lasting impression on you, too.