Remember The Perfect People I whined wrote about last week? Well, it turns out I’m not quite done with them yet. In fact, one of them emailed me this morning. Here’s a perfect example of the kind of thing I was talking about (my comments in red):
From: A Perfect Person
To: Amber
Subject: HOW EMAIL IS RUINING YOUR WRITING
Greatings;
[Greatings? Greatings? WTF?]
I simply had to write about the article ‘HOW EMAIL IS RUINING YOUR WRITING’ that is currently the lead article on your website.
[Now be honest, you didn't have to, did you? You just wanted to. Why? Who knows!]
I was amused that the writer of the article has not attached his/her name to the article
[I am glad you were amused. I like being amusing. But to answer your point, it's my website, so you can assume I wrote it. Proceed.]
and that there were so many errors. The very first paragraph has this written in it: I don’t go anywhere without my laptop, find myself constantly making… Shouldn’t that be I find myself……
[Not really, no. Full sentence: "I don't go anywhere without my laptop, find myself constantly making reference reference to "friends" I only know from blogs, and start going through serious withdrawal if I'm away from my email for any length of time." You could say that there should be another "I" in there, but I'd say you're nitpicking just for the sheer hell of it. Oh, and FYI? We tend to use a curly symbol like this to indicate a question: ? Isn't that pretty? Say it is pretty.]
In the next paraghraph the word realize is spelled realise.
[AAAARGH! I take it you’re in the US then? Great, here we go. Did you really have no idea that we in the UK spell some words differently? Really? UK spellings tend to use ‘S’ rather than ‘Z’. This is not incorrect: it’s perfectly correct UK usage, and if you call yourself a writer then you should know that. If you don’t know that, then you’re really in no position to be writing bitchy emails to other people, and I’d strongly suggest you bear that in mind next time you decide to try and make yourself look smart. What’s a “paraghraph” by the way?]
Then there is this line: “Every time I get one of these emails, I’ll sign in frustration….” What are they signing again? Oh, right emails or maybe frustration?
[OK, ya got me there. Typos, GOD. That was really funny the way you said "What are they signing again?" though. Where do you get your one-liners from? I'll be making the jokes around here from now on though, 'kay? I am "amusing", remember?]
Here’s another questionable line: “and they sometimes don’t even have time for vowels (Poor old vowels!), missing them out altogether and writing in txt spk instead.” How about replacing missing, perhaps using the word leaving.
[How about using a question mark at the end of your question? I'm not going to tell you about this again, you know.]
Oh well I notice that the writer mentions “those old-fashioned rules of good manners and writing etiquette,” yet says nothing about using a proofing a communication,
[What's a "proofing a communication"? I mean, you're the expert here, pray enlighten me. Where would I get one of these and how would I use it?]
proper grammar or spelling. Could there be a reason for this? Perhaps the writer has become to “lazy” to use the word processing program.
[Were you too lazy to add the second "o" to that "to" there?]
I for one do not even send an email without first constructing it in my word processor program,
[Hee! What, not ever? Not even this one? Go on, admit it: you sent this one without first constructing it in your word processor program, didn't you?]
checking and reading it over. Then I paste it into the email text box. That may be the reason that no matter how much time I spend looking for freelance writing jobs I still find myself reading the work of other writers instead of writing myself.
[Or here's a thought: maybe it's because you can't spell words like "too" and "greetings" correctly?]
<Name removed to protect the guilty>
[Kudos, though, for not taking the "anonymous" route. I get a lot of that, too. I would have liked it if you'd provided a link to your website, though, so that I could provide you with some "helpful" comments. I'm all heart, me.]
Tut, tut, Perfect People, surely you can do better than this? (Note: not an invitation to try.) I’m actually quite disappointed in you: you made it way too easy for me to flame your ass off with that little missive. Having fun there in your glass houses? Better watch out for those stones!
Now, I have to admit I feel a little bit mean for publishing this here, because, in the writer’s defense, when she received my response (not quite the response given above. But almost) she immediately sent back a grovelling apology. And there’s a certain pathos to this message: the way it starts off all snarky and smart-ass, and then winds down to its sad little “no matter how much time I spend looking for freelance writing jobs I still find myself reading the work of other writers instead of writing myself.” Ah, here we have the crux of the matter, I suspect…
As I said in my response, though: if you’re going to criticise other people like that, you better be damn sure you know what you’re talking about, and you better be absolutely sure that you yourself are beyond reproach. If you don’t, then you’re just going to make yourself look stupid – or I will. And if you give it out? You better be prepared to get it back.
I know I’ve said it before, but it obviously bears repeating, so I’ll say it again: I sometimes make mistakes when I write. This is not news to me. If you make no mistakes when you write you may feel free to tear me apart as rudely as you like. I’ll obviously still think you’re an asshole for doing it, but meh, who cares what I think, right? I mean, I mis-typed “sigh” as “sign”, and God knows, no one’s ever done that before. If you suspect there’s even the slightest chance that you yourself may actually be fallible too, though, do me a favour and keep your snarky comments to yourself. Because you know me – I certainly won’t keep them to myself!
Tagged email fun, perfect people
Guess who just got back today? Did you guess, “Them wild-eyed weals that’d been away”? Correct! Damn, but you’re good… Yep, the red weals are back, and their return serves to prove the theory I’ve been nurturing for a few weeks now: it was the Touche Eclat what did it. Death and serious illness aside, this is just about the worst news possible for me.
See, I’d had my suspicions about the Touche Eclat for a while. Well, mainly since the point where I stopped using it to see if the weals would vanish, and they did. I think I knew the truth even then, but I didn’t want to admit it to myself. So, rather than break up completely, Touche Eclat and I took a break. I told myself that, of course, I could use Touche Eclat if I wanted to: I just didn’t want to, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Except, of course, there totally was something wrong with that, and I realised what that something was on Tuesday night, when I went for my first wedding dress fitting. (Yeah, more about that later…)
As I stood there, gazing at my reflection in the mirror, you see, I did not see the face of a blushing bride-to-be staring back at me. No, what I saw was more like the face of a woman with seven article assignments, 55 blog posts and assorted other bits of work to do by the weekend. The face of a woman who clearly hadn’t seen the sun in quite some time, and who also? Had obviously applied her eyeshadow under her eyes rather than on the lids. The face of a woman, in other words, who was badly in need of a few layers of Touche Eclat. Seriously, it was Halloween, and I’m amazed the dressmaker didn’t just send me away with a bag of candy when she seen me…
Well, Wednesday morning came. I looked at Touche Eclat, all shiny and gold and perfect. It looked at me, all pale and eye-baggy and STRESSED. “Let’s give it one more shot,” I said, “Just you and me. For old times sake. Love me again, Yves, love me!”
Yves St. Laurent does not love me. Well, maybe he does, who knows, (Yves, if you’re reading this? Send me stuff. Note: not Touche Eclat, though.) but one thing’s for sure: his Touche Eclat most definitely does not. (Neither does his Faux Cils mascara, but that’s beside the point). I woke up yesterday morning with the red weals firmly reinstated under my eyes, just as red and as unlovely as ever. They’re gone now, of course, and now that their mortal enemy has been outed, I think we’ve probably seen the last of them. I am gutted, though. Gutted. I don’t think I’ll ever see its like again. I will never find a concealer to equal it. On the plus side, of course, I’ll be able to smuggle a whole load of stuff onto the plane in my eye bags when we go on honeymoon next year, but even so…
A sad day, indeed.
AAARGH the stress, the stress! Make it go away!
Actually, I came up with a great technique to create more hours in the day (in which to work like a slave, natch). It’s this: don’t bother getting dressed. Or washed, even. Great plan, huh? Especially for people like me, who take two hours to get dressed in the mornings. (I’d like to point out here that I’m exaggerating slightly with the “two hours” estimate. Would like to, but obviously can’t, because that would make me a liar. One day last week it took three!) Just get up, proceed directly to desk, do not pass Go, do not collect £200, aaaaand WORK!
Actually? Now I think of it, because I use a laptop, I could probably also dispense with the “getting out of bed” bit. Why, I could just lever myself into a vaguely upright position, switch on the laptop and let the work begin! I’ll try that tomorrow. Today Terry is at one of his tedious business networking events (Note to self: find out if Terry is having affair with someone at business networking events) so my state of dishabille will go completely unnoticed. I’ve switched the phone off, too. Ha! Take that, clients who call at half-past-midnight!
Anyway, needless to say, the workload is crippling, the deadlines are looming, and that’s why I’m here, blogging about how much work I have to do, rather than actually doing it. (Don’t try this at home, kids). It’s also why, at 6pm last night, and driven almost to the brink of insanity by THE STRESS, I jumped into the car and made an emergency dash to Asda, where I ran around the newly-revamped and absolutely massive George section, throwing clothes into my basket like a contestant on supermarket sweep. Then taking them all back again, obviously, because really, when would I wear a strapless tweed dress? Not while I’m working from my bed, that’s for sure…
It was only as I got ready for bed, many hours later (Tomorrow? When I don’t bother getting up? Totally won’t have to bother with that.) that I realised I’d somehow picked up one of Asda’s stickers during my emergency dash, and had been walking around with a label saying “PART OF A TWO PIECE SET!” on my ass. GOD.
Back to work then. Send coffee. (Also: clothes).
Woo hoo! Got me a domain, people. Got me www.foreveramber.co.uk, so now my blawg is all professional, like. *Snort*
Anyway, now that I have my shiny new domain, I will probably be absent from it for a few days, because I? Am having one hell of a week. Two commissions from The Scotsman (both of them big ‘uns, 1500 words +), three article commissions from my insurance company client, two from my lovely gift site client, plus all of my blogging, all to do by Monday. Guess what I’ll be doing this weekend, then! (Did you guess “Working like a slave, whilst beating off PR people with a stick? You guessed right! Go to the top of the class!)
Just to add to the fun, at the start of this week, The Bank of Scotland decided to randomly freeze my personal account, because they’d had some marketing literature returned to them, and this led them to the conclusion that I am currently masterminding some huge bank heist thingy. Let’s hope they don’t give up the day job and go into detective work, eh? (Actually, let’s hope they do give up the day job. I mean, they’re not really very good at it, are they now?)
When I called them about this, they were, of course, very apologetic, and said that it was absolutely not my fault but that I’d need to haul ass all the way down to the bank to prove my identity, or they would continue to go with the “master bank robber” theory. This made me freak out a little bit, because, seriously, I am SO STRESSED right now that the thought of having to take even ONE MINUTE out of my day to get myself down there to prove my innocence was intolerable to me. Long story short (“Phew!”, I hear you say), I put Terry on the case, and the bank manager will be coming to visit us personally at 3pm today to verify that I am who I say I am. Think I will make sure I am wearing a stocking over my head when he arrives…
Anyway, the moral of this story is that the Bank of Scotland? Are idiots. Don’t open an account with them, even if they offer you money.
Oh, and last night, one of Terry’s clients called us at 00:30. Half. Past. Midnight. Angry? Doesn’t even begin to describe my reaction to that…
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