I use the fact that I’m married to a professional computer genius to suck at computers. I never update my phone or restart my computer, and I always have a backlog of at least 6 months of photos stuck somewhere (What even is the cloud? Why is mine full? Will it rain? Should I be worried?). I always assume that he’s just going to fix it at some point, surely before I get to the point when everything breaks. Just like he’s going to take care of that low pressure light and oil change in my car, the one he never drives, before my children and I careen off the highway after a blow out or the engine explodes. Logical. Responsible. So grown up.
Whenever I decide to make a reappearance on the blog, my technical laziness reacts with my vicious perfectionism and bites me in the ass. My choices are to a) figure out how to fix all the technical problems myself (aka, break everything and cry), b) wait for my husband to fix everything and then not understand how it works (and cry) c) move forward with the limitations I have and accept that my blogging will be subpar.
Options a and b mean that I continue to blog as I have done for the last 9 months, in my head, which is not called blogging, it’s called talking to yourself.
Option c means blogging. I’ll speak for you and say you really don’t care about the quality of my writing or photography. There’s no way for you to care at all if I’m not actually blogging.
So here’s what I want to do, and y’all, don’t hold me to it, because I am but dust: I want to be a crappy blogger. I’m going to post bad photos from the wordpress app on my phone and just crank it out. I can barely keep the poop in my two year old’s pants, still haven’t figured out the light switches in the new house, can’t keep my dog from eating all the duck poop, and need to learn how to muck a pond while wearing men’s size XXL waders. I don’t have time to “create content” or mull over saved drafts if I actually want any blogging to be done. I don’t have the patience or character to be good at photography, writing, or the internet.
I don’t know how to solve my technical difficulties, or my existential ones, so I’m just going to press on within them.
Pretend I’m your grandma. Pretend I’m that 87 year old lady who’s always accidentally posting Google search terms as her Facebook posts but never notices. I just want to show you pictures of my chickens and marvel at the miracle of pressure cooking. I just want to visit with you and I only know how to push the one button to do it. Set the bar there, and this will all be far more impressive.