I've recently been tormented unmercifully by a spate of heinous pranks that could have come only from the Sewer Harpy sisters. I'm talking about those frustrations that seem too minor for therapy, yet too overwhelming for sanity.
My worst challenge this past week, came from malfunctioning technology. I struggled with the recommended image size for the header on my Printify pop-up websites—the instructions specified 1200 by 400 pixels.
That’s not a standard image size, in case you’re unfamiliar with these things. Nevertheless, I carefully followed the instructions—down to the pixel. But when I checked the mobile version, it only displayed the middle third of my carefully designed image.
It was like presenting a beautifully framed pet portrait masterpiece, only to see it cropped into a close-up of a dog’s ear. No offense to the charm of dogs—I just want my whole design to show.
After going to a lot of time and trouble to create an image with that weird format, I had to then go through a random, trial-and-error design competition against an algorithm that clearly despises me.
But that's just the tip of the iceberg of frustrations. On Friday, I was forced to contend with a rogue garbage truck, which, after months of reliably rolling through in the late afternoon, decided to make an unscheduled 9 AM attack run, when my full can of garbage was standing mournfully on the drive, waiting for me to come out and guide it to the curb.
Now I have a garbage can full of evidence, sitting there like a domestic witness protection unit, waiting in smelly suspense for another seven agonisingly long days.
To add insult to injury, if that's the term I want, the deluge of scam texts has become so constant and so aggressive—begging for money, offering me non-existent prizes, or trying to sell me a warranty for a car I don't own—that I've accidentally overlooked important messages.
I even filed one communication from my bank under "Obvious Financial Fraud" because it was sandwiched between a plea from a Nigerian Prince and a text informing me I’d won a lifetime supply of artisanal yogurt.
After going to a lot of time and trouble to create an image with that weird format, I had to then go through a random, trial-and-error design competition against an algorithm that clearly despises me.
But that's just the tip of the iceberg of frustrations. On Friday, I was forced to contend with a rogue garbage truck, which, after months of reliably rolling through in the late afternoon, decided to make an unscheduled 9 AM attack run, when my full can of garbage was standing mournfully on the drive, waiting for me to come out and guide it to the curb.
Now I have a garbage can full of evidence, sitting there like a domestic witness protection unit, waiting in smelly suspense for another seven agonisingly long days.
To add insult to injury, if that's the term I want, the deluge of scam texts has become so constant and so aggressive—begging for money, offering me non-existent prizes, or trying to sell me a warranty for a car I don't own—that I've accidentally overlooked important messages.
I even filed one communication from my bank under "Obvious Financial Fraud" because it was sandwiched between a plea from a Nigerian Prince and a text informing me I’d won a lifetime supply of artisanal yogurt.
This week’s torment by the digital demons and inconvenient schedules can make even the smallest frustrations feel like a coordinated, personal assault—especially when your life coach is a spoiled little brat of a princess.
These minor battles—from algorithm-driven design competitions to surprise early morning ambushes by normally faithful city employees are simply the cost of navigating the 21st Century, if we can believe that’s its real name.
Thankfully, I have help from that modern wonder worker I call Ms. Wonder to help me sort it all out. It’s what I call the witless protection program.
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