A Typical Series of Computer Interactions on My Google+ Posts

POST ONE There! Got everything switched over to my maiden name, RIDLON. Linkedin, facebook, twitter, my blog, MY BOOK!!! 

POST TWO Hooooly SHIT!! I’ve been fucking around with changing everything to my maiden name and now my blog is gone. Gone-gone!! WTF!! How the shit do I get it back????? DAMN! 

POST THREE I have no blog address anymore. Mother- 

POST FOUR Really? Really? This fucking computer is BEGGING to be lit afire. Stupid blog!

POST FIVE Ok. Google+ is nice. They are good and true. They have changed all that I have asked. HOO-raaah. Not so with blogger. Blogger is vile and evil and doesn’t listen. At all. My book cover WAS CHANGED last night!! I looked on Amazon and there it was—all changes had taken effect. Now it just reverted. It just fucking reverted. On its own. GodDAMN I hate computers. . . 

POST SIX Ok. Ok. I have re-published my book TWICE in the last week. TWICE it took the changes and then reverted back. Got ahold of the Blogspot minions and they gave the sage advice of trying to republish it. Really? Yes, I think I will. Re-publishing my book will be a new hobby. I’ll drink coffee, smoke cigarettes, and spend my days re-publishing my book. Every morning. Into eternity. THEN every night the blogger minions can sneak in and change it back for no apparent reason. Sounds like FUN. I’m gonna go get my coffee and smokes right this minute. 

POST SEVEN My blog address refuses to change, too. URL. Whatever the fuck. It lies to me. It says yes. “Yes, michelle, we heard you. We are changing you over right this second. No, wait. Maybe not. Try it again. I’ll do it this time for sure. PLEEEASE Charlie Brown?? Kick that football again—THIS time it’ll go.” My hatred for disobedient computers is goddamn near pathological. Now the blogger mechanics can kiss my ass too. CHANGE MY URL ADDRESS, GODDAMNIT! Stupid blog. 

POST EIGHT Breathe. . .breathe. . .easy in. . .breathe. . .easy out. . .breathe. Nope. Still wanna make this computer into a fucking toaster. All the breathing will just fan the flames and make the fire bigger. Good. Son of a bitch. Stupid blogger. 

POST NINE Now it’s going to take the Amazon mechanics at Kindle a couple years to get back to me on why the changes won’t stick. If they tell me to re-publish and I get their address? Yeah. I’m going to fucking prison.  

POST TEN Going to prison for sure. Some 12 year old from the customer service just emailed me saying he’ll “look into it” and get back to me on TUESDAY!!! (March 31) WHAT????? I’m being featured in the april/may edition of a women’s magazine to promote my book. THE NAMES DON’T MATCH, GODDAMNIT!! I’ll be RIDLON in the magazine and MATTILA in the bookstore. And I started writing these hacks to help me at the beginning of the week. I’m going to stroke right the fuck out. I know it. 

POST ELEVEN Technically, I think Bailey’s is a coffee creamer. I’m pretty sure of it. I’m going to get some goddamn cream. Stupid blogger.

Whose Daughter Am I?

Whose daughter was I? Coming from divorced parents, I was obsessed with this question. It was a tough question. Did I want to be more like Dad or more like Mom? It was not possible to have two life styles that were further apart. The bottom line was, “Who had it right?” 


My father was an old school, strict and tough, highly self-disciplined man. There were no hugs or wiping away of childhood tears for his children. A conservative Republican, he was interested in politics, newspapers, and work. He pushed my brother and I to do more, improve what was mediocre, and never—never—talk back or root for the underdog. Pick a winner. Intelligent and responsible, he had little tolerance for opinions that differed from his own. In short: My dad was the straight man who demanded obedience and respect from his children. His unspoken mantra was FOLLOW THE RULES AND YOU’LL BE RESPONSIBLE AND SUCCESSFUL.   


Such was not the case with my liberal mother. Time had little meaning for her and if she had an opportunity for adventure, all bets were off; she would miss work and go on the adventure. She spent years away from my brother and me while she hitchhiked around the United States seeking new and different cultures, jobs, people, and points of view. A flower child of extraordinary intelligence, she had no interest in discipline or parenting. She wanted to be my friend. Peculiar, unpredictable, and unbelievably well read; cultural norms irritated her. She hid my Christmas presents and told me that Santa was sick and the Easter Bunny had to pick up the slack. She also had two active warrants for her arrest when she died. Her unspoken mantra was BREAK THE RULES AND BE FREE, YOU’LL BE HAPPIER. 


I had to decide which parent was right and which was wrong. Both claimed that their parenting techniques were superior—one abysmally old school and the other radically new age.


I mucked around for years, first being irresponsible but creative, open-minded, and up for any adventure that rolled my way. I was all over the place; I wouldn’t pay my bills, missed work, and more than once I stuck my thumb out to get to where I needed to be. I discovered that I hate instability.


It was time to try the other style on for size.


I went to college and earned a bachelor’s degree, worked seven days a week, paid my bills, and had money in savings. I also stopped writing poetry and short stories, stopped going out dancing, stopped singing with the radio, and passed up every adventure that threatened to flag me down. I was one hundred percent responsible but had forgotten how to laugh.


Feeling despondent and confused for years, the enlightenment finally came all at once. Why do I have to choose one lifestyle over another—why can’t I be responsible and peculiar at the same time?


Whoa. Hold up . . . this could work!  


Fifteen years later, I am a published novelist, paint in acrylics, go on adventures, and look for washed up treasure on the New Jersey shoreline. I am also self-disciplined, carry mace, never miss an appointment, have set meal times, and pay all of my bills.


Whose daughter am I? I am a blended kaleidoscope of herbs and spices from both of my parents. I am “me” and I am happy.         

Michelle Ridlon
Author of “The Feeding Path”