I’m feeling cranky this morning. My Google Reader has 304 unread items in it, and one of the blogs accounts for 53 of those unread posts. I add your blog to my Reader because I want to read it. But if you’re churning out posts like a ticker tape machine, I will unsubscribe. I’ll do it.

Another thing I don’t subscribe to? The rule that you need to blog every day. As RSS feeds gain momentum, quality will outweigh quantity. I won’t need readers to remember to visit my blog, I bring my blog to them. So they’re not going to get frustrated coming to a stale page and lose interest. On the contrary, they will thank me when they’re not overwhelmed by 53 mediocre posts.

Can I also share with you my least-favorite tweet? Here she is: “In case you missed it earlier, new blog post: the 7 reasons social media can make your dreams come true. http://bit.ly/annoying.” There are no less than six annoying things in those 127 characters. The first person to name all six — or add more of your own — will receive an autographed copy of my latest book.

No, I don’t have a latest book, yet.

To add insult to injury, technology has found a new way to annoy me. Nay, disgust me. The following was a recent spam comment on my blog, with product names and companies X’ed out:

“This might be a bit off-topic but I believe there are a lot of smokers here on quepash.scroggles.com. I have recently decided to find a good manufacturer of e-smokes. I’m done with paying so much for tobacco smokes.A friend recommended XXXX. According to their website this is how they described their product:
‘XXXX offers supreme Electronic cigarettes with disposable cartridges that compose of the highest smoke volume in the industry. With a collection of flavors and nicotine levels, XXXX’s™ patented product offers convenience and performance that is unmatched. XXXX products have been independently tested for safety.’
I’m thinking of buying them. Anyone else have experience with this e-cigarette?”

Here’s the problem: we have a nearly full bottle of pomegranate juice in the fridge. It cost $10. It makes a good vodka-pomegranate cocktail. Thus our night begins.

5:45 p.m.: husband concocts said cocktail, thanks to Costco brand vodka: Svedka. Liberal on the Svedka.

6 p.m.: we have 1/3 of a loaf of 5-day old Italian bread sitting on the counter, begging to not be wasted. So I make homemade breadcrumbs. For chicken parmesan, which is husband’s favorite dinner.

6:45 p.m.: favorite dinner deserves candlelight and a cleared off dining room table, and of course wine. we just bought a 1/2 case of shiraz, which may or may not have a screw top. OK, it does. Stop judging us.

7 p.m.: we eat slightly burnt chicken parmesan, because undercooked chicken is both my fear and a health hazard. better safe than sorry. conversation calls for two glasses of shiraz, each.

7:45 p.m.: somehow conversation drifts to IP addresses. husband takes the liberty to delve into an explanation ranging from the DARPA initiative to the transatlantic cable to subnet 192 addresses to my personal Web site.

8:25 p.m.: I drift in and out of focusing on the conversation, trying to understand each layer of the interwebs and also bitter that my husband knows each layer and I don’t.

8:30 p.m.: I resolve to know each layer of something, anything that husband doesn’t. Shall I refresh my memory for diagramming sentences and become a true sentence architect? Shall I memorize a poem from Rumi and perform it for at least 20 minutes, before leading a riveting analysis for my husband?

I’m not sure what I’ll do, but it will be something. I will load him up on food and drink and then unleash my deep knowledge on something he doesn’t understand. Any suggestions?

I’ve been reading a lot of blogs about blogging. I know, it’s very meta. There are two obvious components to the blogs of professional writers, which discourage me from joining the ranks:
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Hello, world. I haven’t figured out why my Google Analytics isn’t working. That’s what smart hubs are for. But until he can help, I don’t know if I’m typing this to my mom and said hubs, or if there are more readers out there.

Please let me know, if you’re out there! I want to hear from you. Feel free to comment when you agree or disagree, or point out my blatant typo in my tirade about bad grammar, or if you’ve had experiences similar or vastly different to mine. As I pursue writing, I need honest opinions/criticism/encouragement.

If you’re here, thank you! I look forward to hearing from you.

You can also email me at kirsten(dot)l(dot)lamb(at)gmail(dot)com.

Men like my hubs are in high demand. Wives like me need them for fixing the gutter, picking up doggy messes, doing the dishes and configuring the TV web of wires so that we only have to learn one remote control. Coworkers need them for fixing any and all computer/programming related problems. Dogs need them for playing and running off energy.

That being said, men like my hubs are weird.
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My husband and I discussed what he informed me is an age-old question — how to make a Web site look and act the same in every browser. As usual, the technical jargon was lost on me. But this is how I understand the quandary of computer programming (or at least html language) as it plays out in different browsers: It’s like IE8 is Texas and Firefox is Colorado.
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This is probably the equivalent of yelling out the answers while watching jeopardy by myself or responding to Delilah’s questions outloud when she asks her radio listeners if they’ve planted a garden … but I do both, so here goes.

I have a flood of new readers! Eager to hear more from me, apparently. Complimenting posts as far back as two years ago. Telling me I should post again soon!

This, not two days after my Spam-a-Lot entry. These comments DON’T have misspellings or crazy links in their messages or a jumble of letters that don’t mean anything. But upon closer examination, they do have weird links for their URLs, which I would never follow to find out where they go. But those links don’t get posted with the comment.

So, my avid readers, I’m keeping your comments. It makes me feel good to see a new name telling me to keep writing! Yes, I WILL continue posting. Yes, I DO have great insight. No, I DO NOT want to make $300 a day online. But I’m keeping your comments, still. Even if they’re all for your own spammish motives, and you’re actually a virtual robot or somesuch.

My husband, a software engineer who makes it his life’s purpose to know everything, recently explained the philosophy and tactics behind spammers. I don’t remember anything specific except the one thing that I’ve always known but never wanted to admit: those spam e-mails that make their way by the hundreds into our inbox … they purposefully have typos! They spell words incorrectly because it tricks the filters.

I always just shook my head at those subject lines about the priem ministre of zimbabwe or how I can please my woman all lnog nigt. Those foolish e-mailers, I thought, they think I’m really going to wire them money or buy their love pills AND they don’t know how to spell. Someone send these poor people a link to one of these prestigious online universities I keep hearing about!

But, no. The spam is that much more despicable for perpetuating misspellings as the foundation of its message. Sick.

If you question my loathing for technology, just take a gander at that clip above. That’s my message to computers.

It’s true: I’m techno-needy. E-mail is my main form of communication. That’s how my husband and I started dating — through e-mails and texts. Now I IM with my husband just as much as we talk face-to-face. I check facebook statuses on my phone during commercial breaks, just so I don’t miss anything. And my work depends and thrives on the computer — writing, photo editing, layout, grant research.

But I hate technology.
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Here I am to scroggle. With only my new Mac standing in my way. I’ve struggled through the weekend to set up my wireless Internet, to no avail. I would throw my Mac through the window if I were a violent person, it weren’t so expensive, and I didn’t have to worry about cleaning up broken glass.

Maybe I’ll just pitch my chunky, old-school Dell laptop through the window. Forever marked with my last name in big, bold marker, that laptop saw me through college and beyond. While packing to move 1,000 miles from home, my mom labeled everything she could get her hands on with my last name. That’s the best way to make new friends in a scary place, as well as ensure that they don’t steal any of my things. Who doesn’t want to be friends with an anal freshman who labels everything from a TV down to her socks? And who also mentions the need for a list of rules, like when to go to bed, during the pre-meet phone conversation with future roommates. I did that too.

So until I get my wireless working, I’ll post a few former blog entries, so this one doesn’t feel lonely.