Tag Archives: life

Hair Salon Pressure: The Final Chapter

29 Oct

My hair is back to normal.

For those of you who don’t care, I completely understand.  For those of you who want to care but don’t know what I’m talking about, read this or maybe even this to catch up.  For everyone else, carry on.

So yes, my hair is back to normal. Well, as normal as normal can be after having chemicals and goop and heat thrown at it.  All things considered, I’d love to go back to the moment when I thought “hey, it would be nice to change things up a bit” and save my money and my time.  But that stupid moment is forever etched in history, along with all the other moronic things I’ve done this year and will continue to do until I rot in my grave with a wealth of knowledge that would have been best applied when I was ten and older, not dead in the ground.  And with the money I spent on my hair, I could have bought fifteen things that are much more important.  I’ll cry that out a little later on.  Now is not the time.

The good news is that out of all of this I may have found an actual competent hairdresser in my area that’s enjoyable, fast, and does

The blossoming of a potentially awesome future hairdresser.

good work.   But she’s also a manager and was tasked with fixing my atrocity of a head and trying to squeeze any more money out of me with product sales if possible.  She kind of succeeded, because I am weak.

Like a little lamb.

Maybe I’ll just take a note and in the future just go to the most crazy-haired, tattooed girl in the salon.  I’ve read so many articles that tell you to go to the person whose hair you like or who seems to have a style close to yours, etc. etc.  

That’s a bunch of malarkey. 

Just go to the nuttiest nut job you can find.  Find someone who expresses themselves almost entirely through body alterations.  Those are the people who are passionate about self-expression and will help you find a way to do the same.  Hot pink hair is a plus.  So is a nose ring.

So anyway, lesson learned.  But this year is all about not holding back out of fear, so I’m also kind of pleased with myself for getting a dye job when I was pretty darn comfortable staying where I was.  And I even had the cojones to call and go back.  That’s pretty cool.

My ‘redo’ stylist rinsed me out right beside the stylist who made the mess the first time around.  That was a tiny dab of awkward sauce.  I forgot to mention that.  She knew what she did.  I wish I could have taken her tip money back.  All of it.  But then, why was I polite enough to tip when I absolutely hated what she did?

Because I’m an idiot.  Lessons learned, my friends. Lessons learned. ♣

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I Have Met the Grumplepuss

28 Oct

Yesterday whilst on my way home away after work, I encountered the Grumplepuss.

I have used this term freely to describe persons with unnecessarily negative attitudes.  I had no image for the term, nor did I think to create one.  But yesterday in a Ma & Pa record store, I looked to the front counter to find the folks in charge and was instead greeted by this at the register:

The Grumplepuss

This, ladies and gentlemen, is obviously a Grumplepuss.  Though, her terrible attitude is not her fault entirely.  As Dave chatted away with the owner, Grumps loved up on me a like a soldier home from war.  After I gave her a few pats at the front counter, she jumped down to follow me around the store until I was finally convinced to sit down and give her some sweet cat lady lovin’. 

Even when content, a Grumplepuss can only look so pleased.

It was during this love fest that I noticed her terrible breath, her unkempt coat, and the gunk that had gathered around her eyes and lingered there for what looked like months.

Poor Grumplepuss has some negligent owners.

I thought about taking her home for a weekend to give her a good cleaning and return her afterward.  I also thought about sending a gift certificate to the business for a free grooming for her.  I’m sure there are lots of great ways that I can frame the conversation, but it still wouldn’t detract from the fact that I’m saying “Hey.  You obviously don’t take care of your cat.  Here’s money.  You have no excuse.”

Eventually the Grumplepuss curled into a half-moon, so that she no longer even looked like a cat, but rather an indiscernible, furry animal from the wild.

Unfortunately, she found it difficult to get comfortable and kept meowing a pathetic little meow, which made me think that perhaps more was plaguing her than met the eye.  Maybe I should send a vet gift certificate too.  Can I even do that?

One of several Grumplepuss attempts to get comfortable.

She eventually resolved to lie on my bag, though at first she was fighting with me to crawl inside it.  Maybe she was asking me to please take her away from the record store.  Maybe she was crying for help and was surprised someone actually pet her instead of saying she was a frumpy, dirty cat.

Or maybe I’ve taken the next step in my Crazy Cat Woman journey, where I am convinced I need to rescue even the cats that are already with an owner in a warm place.  Sooner or later, I’ll think they’re all trying to talk to me.  Some will be telling me to rescue them, others that my apartment is burning down, still others that tell me to collect more cats.

Maybe I should stick to the gift card approach. ♣

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Hair Salon Pressure Part Deux: The Aftermath

27 Oct

I know you’re just dying to know, so here: I ruined my hair.

Remember this from yesterday in regard to taking the plunge? “Is it possible that tonight I will ruin a perfectly good thing?  Yes, yes it is.” (Jackie Baker, October 26, 2011: pre-ruined hair)

Or perhaps this charming picture of what I thought I could expect from such a venture –>

Well I guess you could say it all pretty much came out as feared.  Except I don’t look like a dog.  Not my face, anyway. …I don’t think.

My appointment last night was at 7:30.  At 6:30 I got a call asking if I could come in earlier, so I aimed for 7pm and made it there by 6:45 because I’m awesome. After I sat there for only 5 minutes, the manager came over and explained that my stylist was running behind.  Why did you call me and ask me to come earlier if she’s running behind?, I asked.  Someone called you and asked you to do that?, He said.

This is never a good sign.

He proceeded to explain that I could have another stylist work with me.  She’s a more “senior consultant” he said, but he would charge me the same price.  I told him the whole reason I was there was because the night before, the other girl cut my hair and we talked about color. I came back specifically at a time she was available so I was wary to go with someone else.  He told me he’d supervise my coloring himself.

Getting the manager to supervise with a “more senior consultant” seemed like a fair shake so I thought what the heck, why not. (Note: Wrong.  Totally wrong.)

When it comes to hair advice, the more is not the merrier.  Five minutes later I was seated in the chair with four different stylists huddled around me, talking about how beautiful my natural color was.  One even said, you’re not getting that colored are you?! The correct answer should have been No.  No I’m not, followed by walking out the door.

I told them I used to be more of a redhead and over the years, I’ve kind of morphed into a dishwatery blonde that I don’t prefer.  I wanted a few highlights to bring out the red in my hair, I wanted it to look natural, and I wanted it to be subtle.  They all agreed – I made a great redhead, and I should return to it.

I could reenact in my sleep what happens to stylists when they look at the back of my head and see the huge blonde chunk that runs down it. It’s the same thing every time.  First, they assume it’s a weird dye job by me.  Then they check the roots and see that there aren’t any.  Then they ask me what’s up with it and I explain I was born with it.  I get too detailed sometimes and explain that it’s a matter of genetic co-dominance, much like when you see a horse with spots.

Then they geek out.

Which I really appreciate.  It’s nice.  It’s something interesting about me and I appreciate them making me feel special.  But last night, this discovery led to an all-around consensus that I should highlight blonde like this chunk.  I told the cluster of people around me that I really prefer red and that the blonde would have to be very subtle and only around my face.

2.5 hours later, everyone who chimed in was gone and I was left in the chair with my stylist at closing as she roughed through my hair with her fingers, trying to blow dry it as fast as possible so she could leave.  As my hair dried and came to light, it was obvious that they decided to go with their plan and not mine.  And since she started at the left side of my head and worked around to the right, there was a huge, platinum blonde streak running right down the side of my face, which leads a gradual and noticeable fade all the way around my head.  It was a stripey, skunky strangeness from which I could not recover for another 6 weeks.

I was devastated.

I told her I expected it to be more red and that there was a looooot of blonde.  I told her I felt more like a blonde than a redhead.  I told her I was having trouble adjusting to the shock of the blonde.  I told her lots of things, when I really should have just told her I wanted to cry.  It looked a lot like skunk stripes.  Little baby skunk stripes.  And when the manager was speaking with me, he confirmed three different times that I wanted to be red, I wanted it to be natural, and I didn’t want stripes.

I’m not sure what he did with that information.  I think he communicated it to my stylist via paper cup and string.

I ponied up too many of my hard-earned American dollars, and walked out of the salon with an ample amount of wetness to my eyes.  I had just wasted a lot of money to feel worse about myself.  I loved my hair the day before.  I had a new cut with a little bit of movement and a subtle change.  And even my awesome blow out from that evening was ruined by last evening’s half-inspired styling.

Supposedly, I have two weeks in which to request an adjustment for free.  

This bus shelter advertisement mocked me on my way home.  I’ll be calling today. ♣

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There’s Nothing Like Hair Salon Pressure

26 Oct

Me, tomorrow morning.

Going to the hairdresser is such an excruciating experience for someone who doesn’t spend time on their hair.

Not the shampoo part.  Or the head massage part.   Or the combing, cutting, or texturizing.  All of that’s quite lovely.  Actually, I told the woman who last massaged my head that I would marry her.

Don’t judge me – she made me drunk on the tickly goodness.

The part that’s awful isn’t the actual hair getting done.  It’s the interview process that’s difficult to endure.  Or rather, still feel feminine after.  First of all, it’s obvious to any passerby that I don’t do my hair. I clearly have no skills.  Zero.  I wake up, I wash my hair, I comb it, and I go to work.

Sometimes I put it back in a ponytail.

These are obvious signs of a malnourished beauty skill set and yet they ask the questions.  With their perfect hair and their nicely shaped brows and their awesome makeup.  They stand there and they ask me all these questions as if they don’t already know the answers.  She, rather.  It’s always a she.  Men don’t ask me questions when they do my hair; they just make me look fabulous in silence. So last night, she (let’s call her Meg.  Meg is cute enough name to be a hottie but also cool enough to be better than you at things) interrogated me before she would even touch my hair. Do I put anything in my hair when I style it, do I do anything in the morning to it before I go out, do I blah blah blah. I finally just stopped trying to skirt the issue and said “look, I really don’t do anything.  Like, anything.  I wake up and I wash it”.

I could see the concern grow in her face as she asked the final, telling question: “So you just towel dry it and go?”

I don’t know why she had to make me admit it like that.  Yes, I just towel dry it and go.  And usually put it back in a ponytail within an hour.  I just take all my shame and throw it behind my eyes so I don’t have to have any self-realizations.  Like that I look like an exhausted, 40-year-old housewife.

Maybe 35.  Still.  It’s not pretty.

I almost felt a bit more feminine when she told me I had fantastic hair, great texture, and that it was incredibly healthy.  I like to think it’s because of the lack of gunk and blow drying and teasing, but hey: that’s just me.  So she proceeded to gunk and blow dry it, and golly do I look a lot better.

Really, I do.  I’m getting it colored today.  She’s a very convincing woman.

I told Dave he’s in for a treat.  I’ve been eating better for a long time now, kicked up my exercise this week (thanks, no car!), got my hair done yesterday, and am getting it done again tonight.  I will finish out the week about one hundred times hotter than I was when I started it.

I’m not sure if I’ve been brainwashed or if I just had a realization that I shouldn’t look sad and weary when I’m in my mid-20’s.  I think it has a lot to do with the latter, but that’s what someone with the former reality might think.  So you know, it’s hard to tell.

I’m having day-mares of a striped, hellacious colorfest that ruins the first haircut I’ve enjoyed in a long time.  Is it possible that tonight I will ruin a perfectly good thing? 

Yes, yes it is.  Here’s to female brainwashing.  And hair color. ♣

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Be a Fear Gobbler

25 Oct

Hey, Lollipop Tuesday has gotten harder with the removal of a car from the equation.  How was I supposed to make it to Scottish Line Dancing across town last night without a car to take me there?  I wasn’t.  So instead I decided to poke around a place I didn’t really belong.

Happy Lollipop Tuesday, ya’ll.

If you don’t think there’s anything special about Tuesdays, you should probably check out “What’s Lollipop Tuesday?” listed on this very same page at the tippy tippy top before reading on.  I don’t want you to have to keep living with that fallacy.

Have you ever wanted to just go in somewhere and pretend you belong there just to see if you could go unnoticed?  Or wanted to check out the inside of a building that seemed like it could be cool inside even though you didn’t really have a reason or a right to be there?  I think about those sorts of things a lot.  You can get away with a lot by just acting like you belong wherever you are.  Most people mind their own business and even the ones who don’t probably don’t have the courage to ask you why you’re out of your place.

 

Adventure.

That’s how Frank Abagnale Jr. did it, you know. 

Well he also had a significantly heavy skill set that was developed over time including check forgery, escape artistry, and general imposter.  But I don’t have any of those things so I had to just go with the ‘wander and look like you belong’ mantra. 

On the way to work today, as I was freaking out about spending last week getting a Lollipop Tuesday schedule together and then getting it knocked out of whack by the whole car-is-totaled-thing this weekend, Dave and I were walking and chatting about some of the buildings he’s been in.  I recalled a few weeks before that I was admiring a building downtown I never noticed the top of and he asked me if I’d ever been inside.   He had, he said, for a film shoot (big shot that he is) and it was truly beautiful.  He grabbed me and darted inside, where I saw a beautiful courtyard that was wasted behind closed doors.

As we drove past a beautiful building I see every day on the way to and from work, he asked me if I’d ever been inside it. Again, the answer was no and I asked how it was he ended up all these places.  After all, the building I was looking at had classes going on inside and wasn’t exactly public property from what I could tell.  

But I wasn’t going to be Scottish Line Dancing any time soon so on my way back home from work, I took a detour into the building and did my best impersonation of Frank Abagnale Jr. I just tried to blend in and not look nervous. 

Isn’t it stupid that someone can be so fearful of something so simple?  The worst thing that could happen was I’d get asked to leave.  What’s the big deal in that?   But when I look back only a few short months ago and I was paralyzed with fear at the idea of going in to a new restaurant alone, I’m glad for the awkward growing pains. 

As it turns out, the place is really lovely.  And it’s not that big of a deal at all to walk around a place you might not belong.  It was actually an art hall with  a little courtyard inside (what’s with these indoor courtyards?) and huge paintings.  I even poked through the hallways and stumbled upon a really lovely little auditorium all lit up without a soul in it. 

I made sure to take a picture so you wouldn't think I'm lying. Why do you always think I'm lying??

 

I considered a few uses for the stage; I always geek out when I find a new theater space. 

It was actually a really wonderful little time.  I don’t know when I lost my sense of adventure.  I should rephrase.  I don’t know when I let my fear trump my sense of adventure.  I think that when one succumbs to their fear, they settle.  I constantly deprive myself of new, sometimes mind-altering and almost always enjoyable experiences out of nothing but fear.  I don’t know what it will be like, what I’m supposed to do when confronted, what to say, how to blend in – all of these things are really not that complicated.  And yet somehow I let them get in the way.  That’s really what this whole year-long Lollipop Tuesday series has been about.

And I know I’ve said this before, because I really do so badly want you to try something new: but do something new this week. Anything.  Is there somewhere you’ve always wanted to wander into? Or a walk you wanted to take or a part of town you wanted to explore or a class, a person, an anything-whatsoever that you’ve wanted to do or engage and you haven’t?  It doesn’t have to be huge.  It can be small.  But make it something.  Then come tell me about it.

Gobble up your fear one little experience at a time. ♣

The Great Macaroni and Cheese Adventure Update: I’m cooking and baking and boiling away – I’ve got about half the recipes under my belt.  Last night I even had a few taste testers to help me score.  Soon, someone shall be named the winner of a $25 Visa Gift Card and I shall be the proud owner of the World’s Best Macaroni and Cheese recipe.  Stay tuned for the epicness. 

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The Pig Plan

24 Oct

I think I should shake things up and get a pig.

You know, just a little cute one.  Some kind of stunted-growth pig.  An around-the-house pig.   A pig for all occasions.

There are a few features about a pig that I think we could benefit from.  For example, security.  My cats do nothing for the security of my apartment.  While a pig doesn’t offer much in the way of badass mofo-ness, it will certainly confuse an intruder.  Perhaps it will make him consider what other kinds of freaky animals I’m hoarding in the house.  Or maybe he’ll just find it so darn adorable that he will be unable to take anything from the pig’s home out of guilt.

My pig will also eat scraps from the table, thereby reducing our garbage total each week.

I could also teach it all sorts of tricks.   I would try to invest in teaching it things that are a blend of around-the-house tricks and great party tricks.  I was at a get-together this past weekend in which one couple brought their dog.   I brought cake and pie, and they brought a dog, which was basically our entertainment for the evening.  So on that note, my pig is a money-saver if I bring it along to house parties.  Apparently we can just bring animals into other peoples’ homes if they’re cute enough.  I reckon a pig is cute enough to get me out of baking, shopping, and entertainment-hunting.

Granted, in light of my recent transportation situation, perhaps a pig purchase is not the most responsible thing I can do at this point in my life.  But if I consider the long term savings (garbage reduction, party animal, cost-effective apartment security), and I do my best to find a free one, I think I can make it happen.

I don’t know how it will get along with the cats, but they could use a good bit of sprinting around the house anyway.  Look at that! A cheap workout routine for the felines as well.  

All things considered, this is a solid, responsible, adult decision.  Perhaps I shall go pig hunting after work. ♣

I would bathe him. Frequently.

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Oprah: The Solver of My Middle Class Problems

23 Oct

Is it absurd to think this is a good time to enter every contest imaginable? 

For those of you who didn’t get a chance to read yesterday, our car was totaled.  With the bike obliterated from the accident involving it less than 2 weeks before, we are now completely without transportation aside from our feet.  I suggested to Dave that feet will do for now with a bit of planning, but Pittsburgh’s colds are so bad that you think you’ll never be warm ever again.  So obviously when the time comes, we’ll need to invest in sled dogs.

Because the chances that we’ll be able to house and use for transportation a pair of highly trained huskies throughout the winter is just about as likely as us getting a new car.

There’s a certain thought process one goes through when attempting to solve these adult life problems.  It’s this weird line of thinking

Magical problem-solving Oprah, hear my poor plight.

where you literally work through all the important things that your new situation affects and try to manage the disasters that are on their way prior to their actually being here.

It’s an art.  A painful, exhausting art.

So last night I sat and thought through Dave’s gigs, my work, Dave’s work, weekends we had planned away, and the upcoming holidays with my family in Amish country and his in New York.   And short of picking up a horse and buggy to be home for Thanksgiving and renting it out until Christmas, the sled dogs seem like our best bet.   I worked through the money lots of different ways.  And no matter what it comes down to, I just need more of it.  I just – need more of it.  I don’t have enough to fix my problems.

And then with no ideas and seemingly no options, I considered hooking.

You know: a lady of the night.  I mean, not really.  I couldn’t possibly be a hooker.  But mind you, this is how people come to the conclusion.  Dave is skeptic of that theory but it seems sensical to me.  

So the only other option if I can’t afford a car, need a car, and can’t be a hooker, is that I will have to win a contest.  Not just small contests – big contests.  I need car sweepstakes entries and lottery tickets.  I need to entice Oprah herself to be all like “Hey Jackie, nice blog.  Here’s a car.  I don’t have the show anymore but I like to give out the same amount per year anyway.  You know, for the karma.”

I think that’d be great press for her, you know? “Oprah gives car to famous blogger”.  

Feel free to notify her of my plan. ♣

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Shaking Things Up

22 Oct

Our car got totaled yesterday. Dave was driving. He’s fine.

I like to get all the information out in the open real quick. See? All the information you need is right there for you … Everything you could want to know. Your questions have been pre answered.

This comes at an unnerving time as Dave just recently survived a biking accident.  Luckily, as I stated, Dave is fine. But the compounded effect of having a rain cloud the shade of catastrophe over your head is hard to take.

Usually when you get in an accident you can take solace is the fact that it’s unlikely to happen again soon.  So yeah, It’s rough but at least you got it out of the way.

Maybe thats just me. You know. Sally Sunshine.

His bad luck is systematically eradicating ever form of  transportation I have. The car was totaled. So  Two weeks ago the bike, today the car… Maybe tomorrow he can take me out at the knees.

Anyway now I have to do all this big kid stuff with insurance and having a job with no way to easily get to it.   Being an adult sucks at times like this.  It’s these moments that make me appreciate childhood. Or even that period when I didn’t think I was a child but happily lapped pup the privileges of identifying as one regardless.

I think I’m being forced into walking everywhere for the sake of my health.  Nothing else got me exercising so God decided that I can either walk to work or i can be fat and poor.  I can’t imagine a better plan.

So I guess I should be thankful. After all, thanks to Dave totaling the car I have a workout program I have no choice but to stick to. And on the other bright side, at least Dave has been in two accidents and it’s unlikely he’ll be in a third anytime soon.

Maybe I’ll lock him inside just to be sure. ♣

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Wrestling with a Poltergeist

21 Oct

Disclaimer: I am not this tall.

Dave has cursed our apartment with a poltergeist.

“Honey”, he says to me in the car yesterday, “this is the first time in my life that I feel I’m not really celebrating October.”

“What do you mean?  I bought pumpkin candles, we decorated the house for fall, and we have a Halloween party to go to at the end of the month.  What else do you need?”

He thought for a moment and said “more horror flicks, I guess”.

I don’t do scary movies. It isn’t so much a problem in the moment that I watch them – it’s the moments after.   I can’t even watch stupid ones.  I mean, I can.  And I’ll even laugh and not jump in my seat and talk about how it’s no big deal.  But truth be told, when the lights are all out and I hear things going bump in the night, I forget about the poor makeup and special effects and I completely let fall from my head the terrible storyline and the stupid acting.  All I can think about is “Oh my bajeezus.  Freddy is coming for me.”

C’mon, I have cats.  They make terrible security guards.

I’ve started a deal with Dave where I’ll watch the occasional horror flick so long as he checks every nook and cranny in the house before bedtime and promises to escort me anywhere in the dark I very well please.  He must tell me that I’m being silly and that my mind is playing tricks on me.  He must do this infinitely until I stop voicing my concerns because I warned him what would happen if I had to watch a movie.

It appears that by Dave voicing his concern for an underwhelming amount of freakiness, we have been since blessed with our fair share.  Last night as he was leaving for a show, I noticed our kitchen light flickering.  Dave said it was no problem – we have plenty of light bulbs stowed away from that research bus we got on a few weeks ago.  But this was no light-dying flicker.  We left our apartment to an eerie, low hum accompanied by zaps and sparks;  there was an electrical fire sprouting from the tentacles of cords on the pole outside.

Someone called it in and I went to the store to get ingredients to bake.  It seemed like a good time for a cake.

But – rather predictably I suppose – when I came home the electricity was out on my street.  With Dave at the show and me home alone, I got to walk through the creepy corridors of my apartment building in the pitch black.  Pretty amusing given that I left a lamp on so I didn’t have to come home to a dark house.

After I lit every tea light we had and cracked an Emergency glow stick (my favorite part of power outages), I sat in my lemongrass/mulberry/cinnamon bun/pumpkin spice scented dining room and thanked God that my laptop was charged so I could at least write something as I waited.

I looked to the living room, where I threw the glow stick for good measure.  It cast a creepy green glow throughout that made me think of Dave’s wish for October horror.   As I tried to shake off the crazies, I noticed that my window was ever so slightly ajar and a high pitched whistle was whirring through the apartment.

I stayed calm.  I thought I’d make a cake by candlelight and embrace the ways of the Amish, so I called my mom for a bit of direction.  She promptly reminded me that I couldn’t use the mixer or the oven.

I told her my oven is gas but she totally won with the mixer.

So I sat.  And stared.  And breathed in the grassy/berry/pumpkiny/cinnamony air.

That’s when my window fell down.

Like, fell down.  The entire bottom half of my two-part window completely came off its tracking and dove onto the dining room table, where I had a variety of candles lit for my comfort.  I rushed to put it back in place, trying to ignore what this would could mean in the context of Dave’s eerie wish, the power outage, the green glow in my apartment, and the super creepy whistle that wouldn’t go away even once the window was yoinked.

What if I wasn’t there to fix it? What if I weren’t sitting right beside where it happened?  It’d be like a creepy poltergeist flick where something inexplicably falls onto a bunch of lit candles and everything starts to slowly catch fire.

What it if I were pooping? I could have burned to death on the toilet.

The power returned to us precisely 2 minutes before Dave reentered the house – an odd timing indeed.  This was just day one of his curse upon our apartment.    

I still have 11 more days to try to survive. ♣

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Who Snatched the WordPress Wizards?

20 Oct
I apologize for the WordPress.com-themed post today, as I recognize (and love) that a lot of my subscribers and readers are not, in fact, WordPress.com users and may not have any idea what I’m talking about.  But good news! I write every day.  And there are 364 posts that will be featured here for 2011 that can tickle your non-Wordpress.com user fancies.  Because today, I have a pressing matter to address:
 

Who snatched the WordPress wizards?

Has anyone else noticed things are a little…strange around here lately?  I don’t know about you, but I’ve got an absurd number of hits from WordPress.com these past two days and try as I might I can’t find my blog featured anywhere in particular.  Typically it tells me what tag it’s from or which blog, but now it’s just straight-feeding general stats.  I certainly don’t mind, but it’s a little confusing when paired with my next area of concern:

Why hasn’t Freshly Pressed changed? Even if it updates later this morning, it still went the entire weekend and three weekdays without changing over.  I know there’s only a handful of WordPress wizards to go around, and no offense to the currently featured folks who are no doubt enjoying the consistent slew of hits and comments.  My issue isn’t that they’re still up… it’s that I fear something has happened to the wizards.

Has it?

I saw a couple new themes roll out, so someone must be updating Twitter.  And The Daily Post is still alive and kicking.  But… but what about everyone else? Are the crazy number of new WordPress hits linked to the lack of Freshly Pressed

Have you seen the WordPress Wizards? Don't be freaked out by the dead eyes. They're good people.

rollover?

What is this madness!?

I tried to Google these issues last night to see if anyone else was concerned, but I only found a few tweets in the sidebar of this blog mentioning the same things I was experiencing (Hi Deborah.  Thank you for your shared concern for the wizards).  If we go the whole week with these anomalies, I might start a search party.  Possible tomfoolery regarding the WordPress Wizards includes but is not limited to:

  • They were stolen and replaced by hackers who failed to realize that in order to maintain the facade of normalcy, they must continue to rotate Freshly Pressed features
  • They got golden tickets to the Wonka factory and are working to craft the most amazing insider testimonial blog post ever
  • They have been eaten by the exotic animals running amok in Ohio
Or maybe they quit.  But that seems silly.  Who would quit such a glamorous job? No one, that’s who.
I’m not sure how to start an Internet search party.  But I know how to cause a ruckus.  And maybe once I navigate a how-to, I can publish a book on Internet Search Parties, wherein I am the grand know-it-all.  I can go to forums and teach classes and be all superior about my Internet Search Party knowledge and talk about how it all started because the WordPress Wizards went MIA.
Who’s in? ♣

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