I sat down yesterday, laptop before me, to write about my day on Wednesday, wanting, really, to do another Day In The Life entry, as Wednesday had impact on me, just the way the day meandered, seemingly without intention, but in retrospect with great meaning. The notes were in my mind, prepped and ready to be transcribed, those beats of the day, The Teenager sitting adjacent to me, telling me about her day, the two of us both home for the first time in the day when it happened, that is, when I realized what was happening: my website, my precious blog, barbmagazine, was nowhere to be found. I typed in barbmagazine.com and the site…was not found. I typed barbmagazine.com again, thinking, oh, Google you rascal, but alas, still, I was met with black type on a white background that said, “Server not found.” Panic bubbled inside me, The Teenager speaking at her rapid pace, unaware that a further knock on my life was occurring, speechless I was, calculating the amount of entries, the depth of my writing and thinking, how connected to the world of women I felt through my blog, the impossibility of recouping all of the content. “My blog, it’s disappeared,” I said, realizing I was not yelling or crying, that I was matter-of-fact, my version of grace under pressure. My daughter’s face fell, knowing, knowing the gravity of this particular case. I posted on Facebook, hoping for guidance, as so many of my college-era fans are well-versed in this landscape, and thankfully, the reassurance, as per Mike Foley, “Deep cleansing breath.
You can’t remove anything from the internet on purpose let alone by accident,” provided the solace I needed, that gentle virtual arm around my shoulder, that everything would sort itself out. I started an online chat with a WordPress rep, who told me that it was not the host site. Now, it was 5:30, and we had to leave, my daughter was going to the opening of the Broadway show, Moulin Rouge, and I was escorting her to the theatre, where she was meeting our friends, and in particular, The Boy BFF, the man who was my birth partner, the man who spoke at her Bat Mitzvah, the man who came to every show she was in, every event, every everything I invited him to over the years, the man who has been with us this whole crazy ride, he, he was seeing Moulin Rouge with The Teenager, ever the musical theatre fan that she is, this thing they share, this love of performing and performance. The whole trip to midtown, the whole way home, every moment of going and coming, I was somewhere else, in this in between world, where my barbmagazine.com may have been. As soon as I got home, I called GoDaddy. First call, mid-case, dropped. Second call, a Melvin T, gave me my marching orders: contact the third party host. So I did, I emailed my TPH, who lives in Brasil, who has been with me this whole ride, who assembled the infrastructure of BARB, who has been, for lack of a hifalutin word, awesome. Still. Brasil. I went to bed, fretting. I woke up, still fretting. At then, at around 10am, my TPH resurrected BARB. Joy. Joy. Joy. I woke up The Teenager, and I said, calmly, “Barb is back up.” And her whole face lit up. She too felt my pain. She was the first person I spoke to about starting a blog, in 2015. and she was the first of so very many people who would support me, cheer me on, help me as I became a blogger. So thank you, thank you to everyone who responded and encouraged me. I am so very back, and so very grateful to you.
Ruth Bader Ginsburg: “I am very much alive.”
Angela Bassett: “But that it would just cross so many boundaries and resonate with so many different people — 84-year-old women would come up to me and say, “Wakanda forever.” Or little boys from Ireland were like, “It’s Queen Ramonda!”
Alfre Woodard: “Whatever’s going on, we’re never going to be lost because these stories tell us, time and time again, that there are truths that you can always hold onto.”
Jen Gunter: “You have no idea how many women still ask me about putting garlic in their vaginas.”
Explaining what is happening in Puerto Rico.
Fun facts about cucumbers.
And now have a laugh with Mitra Jouhari.