HOW TO INCREASE VISITORS TO BLOG, and more

First, let me talk about this blog. I made a half-hearted start at blogging a few years ago, but didn't follow it up. Then I had the brilliant idea of posting my essays in the blog - most of them are travel essays about India, Cambodia, Peru, other places my husband and I have visited. The essays were written for publication, with some degree of formality, an attempt for perfection (if there's such a thing); and then I don't know exactly what happened, I felt like journaling.

I started looking at how other bloggers did theirs and realized they have thousands of hits! Thousands, and I barely had visitors to my blog, a realization which was very humbling.

So I tried to figure out how people got such large hits. I noticed that some bloggers have registered with Blog Catalogue, so I did this. Now suddenly I'm getting a lot of bloggers inviting me to be their "friend" or to be in their list. I have no idea how to respond to these invitations, and maybe someone kind and knowledgeable out there will inform me. And maybe someone can also explain how those counters work, and what's a hit exactly, and are viewers counted? I have no idea.

And while we're figuring these out, maybe someone out there can tell me what could possibly be wrong with my printer. I had to unplug it because I moved things around my office, and when I plugged it back it, it refused to work. It scans all right, but it's not getting messages from two computers. Initial research leads me to Port Drives - where is the port drive? Is that in my computer? Or is that in the printer? Or it that a soft ware? Any way, if any one reads this who's got ideas, let me know - cbrainard@aol.com.

Aside from that, I've had a busy day. This morning Jonathan Lorenzo and Jacob Rippens from the Filipino American Library in Los Angeles stopped by to get ideas about a literary journal they are considering. It's certainly a great idea. As far as I know there is only one Filipino American literary journal - Maganda - coming from the Bay Area. There's a journal, Pilipinas, but it's not exclusively about Filipino American issues. So, as far as I know, for 2.5 million Filipinos in America, there is one literary journal. Pretty pathetic, isn't it?

My cat just wandered in - she's an old tuxedo cat named Kiki, around 13 years old, and in her old age, she's developed allergies, of all things to fleas. One bite from a flea and she itches like crazy. She came in last night, scratching and as miserable as good be. I shampooed her, squirted some anti-itch stuff on her, and vowed she'd be an indoor cat from now on. But somehow today, what with the housekeeper and Jonathan and Jacob, and grandson Luke around, Kiki managed to escape. And after hours of being out there, where there are no doubt fleas, has returned, and I just swore under my breath that I'm not going to wash her again for this dermatitis.

I've discovered that B12 alleviates her itching, but it's difficult to give her the pill. I have to pry open her mouth and shove the little pink pill deep into her gullet so she can't regurgitate. Not a very pretty picture.

I'm going to look for the picture of Kiki with the TV clicker, post that, and I'm done blogging for the day.
(Photo below shows Kiki the cat beside Lauren, and she's holding the TV clicker

TAKING CARE OF DYLAN

It starts as soft whimpering, ah-ah-ah. We take sharp breaths, listen for more sounds. We hear stirrings. He must be rubbing his eyes, kicking off the blanket. My husband and I freeze. We are in bed. It is 1 a.m. We are listening to our grandson who is in his porta-crib just eight feet away. If we are quiet; if we do not rustle the bed sheets; if we stop breathing, he will go back to sleep. But the whimpering rises, turns into crying — wah-wah-WAHHHH. If we keep our eyes closed, pretend we are asleep he will shut up. But the crying gains momentum, becomes more vigorous, and aside from that it is now sitting up fully awake and it is screaming its lungs out. Still we are hopeful; if we ignore it, if we do not acknowledge that the noise it is making is truly nerve-wracking, it will go back to sleep. We turn into stiff boards, dry planks of wood, laying side-by-side on the king-size bed like giant sardines, dead giant sardines, exhausted from having spent hours singing and rocking it to sleep just two hours ago. But now it is awake again. The sound it makes ricochets all around the room, fills every single corner, shadow, crevice, fills our inner ears like some kind of penetrating screw.

How can a tiny thing like that make such a gigantic, captivating, excruciating noise? It is relentless, will not stop. It does not even pause to breathe, but screams right on, so the noise it makes is one prolonged agonizing scream. There is no denying; it is up.

If I do not move, if I keep my eyes closed, my husband will think I am asleep, and he will have to deal with it. I turn limp. I can feel my husband doing the same thing. We are two relaxed human beings, totally asleep, dead to the world this early morning while our grandson is screaming. I snore a little bit. I have him on this one because he does not snore. He is always making fun of my snoring; he does not snore, so he cannot now snore. But I am snoring, so deep into sleep and I am dreaming of Machu Picchu; I am walking along the Inca trail.

“Stop pretending to be asleep,” he says.

I snort a little, make the sound that he finds repulsive.

He sighs. His eyes are open now, staring into the black ceiling. He has to get up tomorrow and go to work. But this early morning, his grandson is demanding milk or attention, or both. He gets up to go downstairs to get a bottle of milk.
And I open my eyes, slide out of bed, and walk to the porta-crib. “Grandma’s here,” I whisper. Tiny arms fly up in the air. I pluck him from the crib. The crying stops. Like something synchronized my husband appears with the bottle of milk. Together we change our grandchild, and feed him, and rock him once again to sleep.

(Written 2003. Above pictures show Dylan, and Dylan and Alex his Dad)