August 14, 1999

I'm obsessed with my counter. While I've gotten better over the last month or so, I do check it regularly.

This is a source of great amusement to my husband. Something for him to mock me over. Well, it's eminently mockable so I just deal with it. (Lord knows there's so many things I can and do mock him about that it's truly magnanimous of me to give him this one itsy bitsy, teensy weensy little thing.)

When I first started my journal I checked the stupid thing every 15 minutes.

Ut oh, no readers between 3:27 and 3:59 a.m. What should I do?

No one in Kosovo is reading my journal. Well, they're probably a little busy there so I'll forgive them. Perhaps when things settle down a bit.

Anyway, I calmed down about the whole counter thing. All my time slots were filling up nicely. People from around the world were coming, reading, writing to me, and seemingly enjoying what they saw.

To take a step back and give this all a little perspective, I think the most readers I've ever had in any given day was something like 77. OK, Kymm gets this many in a five minute period, but, well… 77 whole people. There are probably more than 77 people on my block who are on the internet but it was thrilling. 77 people in the entire world are reading what I have to say. It's the little things that give me pleasure I guess.

About two weeks ago my numbers started going down. Hmmm. What's going on?

Of course I blamed my counter.

Things went from bad to worse when last Friday my counter stopped providing me with referrals. (The page that tells you where your readers are coming from: bookmarks, links, etc.) I mentioned this to Chuck. He said wait a few days and see if it gets better. (This is akin to the advice that if your computer is acting up, reboot.)

Wait and see I did. Things did not get better.

So, I took matters into my own hands. I installed a different counter. One of those site-meter jobs. I have always like the look of that little rainbow thingie on the bottom of other people's journals. What the hell. So, last night I installed one of those. Myself. And, in a fit of pique I de-installed my other counter.

About two hours later I decided it wasn't such a good idea and that I should run both counters simultaneously and see what's going on. So, I tried to re-install the old counter. No luck. I got Chuck involved. At about 2:00 this morning he re-installed the old counter. But it's not working. Hmmm. Perhaps I'll attempt to tackle this little project myself again. Later.

In other news, we went to a BBQ at the palatial estate of Mr. and Mrs. Evaporation this afternoon. We were all looking forward to the outing, especially Zoe. She really adores Amy and has been practicing jumping off her swings like Amy did on 4th of July. "Look mamma, just like Amy. Like a big girl." A wonderful time was had by all. Superb host and hostess those Evaporation's.

When I asked Steve what we should bring he said salad.

I should have assumed.

Whenever anyone asks me what they should bring to my house I always say salad. Because I hate making salad. I don't know why. It's not offensive. It doesn't smell bad. It's not hard to do. I think it's just one of those things.

But salad I made.

This lead me to an observation about salad: Why does the good stuff always migrate to the bottom of the salad? All the crunchy, delicious little extras always end up buried under miles of lettuce. Even if they're the last thing you add to the bowl and don't toss it. One of life's little mysteries I guess.

In order for me to get Chuck to eat salad with dinner two elements must be present: bacon, and the salad must actually be served to him. If I make a large bowl of salad and put it in the middle of the table I can guarantee you that he will not take any. If I make him a small bowl and put it next to his plate he will eat it. The same holds true with veggies. Family style and none of them will make their way to his plate. One his plate and they're all eaten. This must be left over programming from when he was a kid. Whatever it is, I'm on to him.

Oops, now that he knows I'm on to him he'll probably never eat another bite of lettuce again.

Until next time. . .