Sorry for the unexcused absence. It was entirely involuntary.
We use WordPress software as a base for this blog, and the company occasionally issues an upgrade (it’s all free and up until now works great). Whenever they say “Upgrade Available” our Webmonster (AKA my loving hubby) clicks on the link and from there — it is all automatic.
Except last week.
When the software upgrade finished, all of our posts were gone! That’s almost 400 essays I’ve written since we started over earlier (when we changed providers).
I almost had a conniption fit.
For several days, the Webmonster tinkered, and finally — as you can see — restored the service.
How he does it, I do not know. Maybe he has a bag of pixie dust, or maybe he makes sacrifices to the great unknown powers of Wilicon Valley. I often tell people that I married my Tech Support, and they applaud my foresight.
Whatever — we are back! And you will probably find new content here in the next 24 hours.
And rest assured — The Webmonster has doubled his vigilance in backing up the whole site.
Love and Kisses–
California is known as “The Golden State” and some have called it “The Land of Milk and Honey.”
The Beverly Hillbillies noted that it was the home of “Swimming pools – Movie stars.”
That should be encouraging for people like my 27 year old, freckled, red-headed patient. After all, he had a pool cleaning business. But he was nervous — really nervous.
He did not have full-blown panic attacks, though he certainly fit the criteria for generalized anxiety attacks. Sometimes he did get a “heart in the throat” kind of feeling; something which some people would have called a “truncated anxiety attack.” But he had a lot of them and they really didn’t cramp his style very much.
He did not sleep very well, confessed that concentration was poor, and had great difficulty trying to find any interest in collegiate academics. As a result, his grades suffered considerably. And while I could potentially chalk this up to him falling into a category of males who may be better equipped for trade school than an actual 4-year college (based on patience; not necessarily intelligence), I didn’t believe this to be his case at all.
This guy was anxious. Read more on Stuck On The Treatment Treadmill…
I don’t care if Dylan Thomas was drinking himself to death while that was being written. It is a sentiment close to my heart, and undoubtedly the stanza of poetry I quote most often.
I will not accept the allegedly inevitable “cognitive loss of age.”
I suppose my mother did me a service at age 10, when she dragged me fairly close to the oversized window of an oversized ladies room, and told me never to linger trying to make myself attractive, for it would be a waste of time. I was – in the opinion of my parents – destined for brains, not beauty.
Time lost in fixing my appearance would be noted sardonically by my father, and bother him, as we wasted his time.
But my strong suit was my brains, and even I agreed that I should work on them — working very hard in school — and that way I could win in life. I actually took my mother seriously, for a very long time. It was not until my late fifties that I started to be anywhere near a fashionable woman’s size, finding to my amazement that people found me attractive, and taking more notice myself than ever in my life.
But even now, I don’t give a damn if they call it “cognitive loss for age” or “dementia,” I want nothing of it.
Nothing at all.