I know it’s been forever and after giving it some serious thought, it’s best for me to put this blog on hold. My plan was to continue until the end of the year, but I can’t give it the attention it deserves right now. I’m not sure how long I will be away, but thanks for your support here.
Valerie
xoxo
p.s. – comment section is closed to keep me from weeping.
Just so you know what to look for: Laugh: Boo: Applause: Crickets:
I was going to publish a live reading of this post in stand-up comedy format, but after several attempts and still not liking the sound of my voice, I nixed the idea and traded my microphone in for a keyboard.
I hope it reads like stand-up comedy, I even added a few interactive buttons for you to play with as you read along. So, please, sit back and pretend I’m on stage. I hope you enjoy the show.
Please welcome to the stage, Valerie Morrison. Applause:
How many of you remember the rotary phone? When the phone was just a phone. I think one of the reasons I don’t like the phone is because it’s complicated.
If the phone was a test, I would get an operator, a zero. I liked the phone back when all it did was make and receive phone calls, but now it has evolved into a call center. It can do things.
I think the phone has too many features, take for example, call waiting. When I was growing up there was no such thing as call waiting. Back in the day, call waiting meant using a rotary phone and waiting for the dial to come back around so that I could dial the next number. There was no clicking over, and for what? To tell the other person that I was on the phone and would call them back.
Personally, I liked when there was security posted at the door better known as, a busy signal. If someone called me and they got a busy signal, they had to wait. Of course, there was that one person who could not and dialed the operator with an emergency and interrupted my call. There was no real emergency, but an impatient person who never grasped the true meaning of call waiting.
The other feature I consider a useless overkill is three-way calling. Does anyone even use three-way calling anymore? It seems so high school. In my childhood home, three-way calling meant there was one line and two phones. One in the kitchen and one in the living room.
When a call came in two people picked up the phone at the same time and talked to whoever was on the other end; or until someone yelled, “I got it, hang up.”
And there were no games with phones without features. No screening calls and no avoiding people like there is today. The only Caller ID we had was, hello, who is this?
Now phones come with 100 features and voice mail. The phone has options. Press 1 for new messages, press 2 for voice mail, press 3 to set up your mailbox.
If you don’t know, I suck at following directions, that’s why I never took aerobics class at the gym. My brain shuts down. I can’t process certain information quickly and I start to panic. It’s the same panic I feel when I’m inside an elevator and I see someone running toward the closing doors.
Even though the buttons are clearly marked, open and close, I never press the right one. I panic under pressure and usually end up yelling ‘sorry’ as the doors close shut. Once, I pressed every button, but open, and had to stop on floors, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 and 10. When pressed for a decision made under a time constraint, I can’t cope and usually mess up.
Now a question for the audience. What is it about cordless phones that make people want to pace the floor? It’s like an exercise program with no jump rope. The cordless phone should come in a box with ankle weights.
Someone could be resting on the couch, but the minute that phone rings, and it’s for them, they start pacing the floor with the phone. I’ve watched people on the phone go from room to room – just walking – and I’m only getting bits and pieces of their conversation. It sounds like this: and she said…….never came home…the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. Nothing makes sense! Not that I’m listening.
I’m just saying, I liked the phone better when it was attached to a cord. I could walk two feet, aaaand that’s it! Anything past two feet and the phone was snatched back and smashed up against the wall.
The cordless phone is never where it’s supposed to be anyway. It used to be when the phone rang, you reported to the wall to answer it. Now when the phone rings, if it’s not on that handset, well try and find it. The cordless phone was made to get lost. It says so right there on the base, find handset.
So not only is the phone lost, but after you press the find handset button, you have to locate the beep. It’s the same disorientation I get when I play pin the tail on the donkey. I don’t like it because it sucks.
I know this is a little long, so I’m going to wrap it up, but before I go I have to share a phone story.
A few weeks ago my computer at work was switched out and I was given another one, I guess you could call it an upgrade. Everything was basically the same, except one of the programs I use was not properly configured, the Message Manager.
The Message Manager handles voice mail message, it’s very simple. I launch the program, I click on the message, it rings my phone and it plays my message. I like it because it does not talk to me nor does it ask me any questions.
So my message light is red, indicating that I have a message. I launched the program, but it’s missing an IP address and can’t access the server. Basically that means for two days I did not check my voice mail. There is a way of retrieving voice mail messages using the phone, I’ve heard people do this, I’m just not smart enough to do it.
Eventually, I got tired of looking at my message light and I dialed a co-worker who is used to my nonsense and whispered:
“I don’t know how to retrieve my voice mail messages, from the phone.”
“Val, what are you talking about? You press the little envelope that says messages.”
“There’s an envelope? Oh, right there. There’s 300 buttons on this phone, but I see it now.” So I pressed the envelope and this woman started talking. She greeted me with a welcome message and told me to enter my extension and the pound sign. I entered my extension, 2177 and #.
Next she told me to enter my password. My password is my extension backward. This seems simple enough, but to an instructionally-challenged dyslexic, it’s numerical musical chairs and I needed a minute to think about what she was asking me to do.
After several attempts, maybe I was nervous or stupid, I could not type 7712 and the woman on the phone kept telling me that I had the wrong passcode and to please try again. After three tries I decided I didn’t like her tone and hung up on her.
I know I’m not phone literate, but darn it if I don’t know how to work a computer, so I sent an email to the HELP department. Unlike most people, I can’t send a normal email asking for help, I have to write a little ditty explaining my situation. My last email message to Help read this way:
Dear Help,
Thank you for the new computer, I hope my old one is not being used as evidence against me. I would like to retrieve my voice mail messages using the program on the computer, and not the phone, mainly because the woman on the phone talks too much, I can’t follow directions, but I’m down with clicking. Thank you.
That’s my time for the evening. Good night.
Laugh: Boo: Applause: Crickets:
A typographical error is a mistake made during the typing process. The term includes errors due to mechanical failure or slips of the hand or finger, but excludes errors of ignorance. ~Wikipedia
I highlighted the word mistake because that’s what a typo is, it’s a mistake and even though we all make them, nothing unnerves people like a typo. Why is that?
Illustration: We’re surfing the web, maybe we’re reading a blog post, and then we see it, a typo. We look at it, maybe we go back and reread the sentence again. Yep, it’s a typo and we stare at it like it’s a two-headed monster.
Next, we either run away screaming or somehow we muddle through the confusion of H being transposed with E and realize the word the author meant to type was “the” and we leave a comment.
After clearing up the confusion in our mind, we go on our merry way, but we can’t stop thinking about that typo! We go back to their blog, or the article, to see if it’s still there, and it is, the author hasn’t corrected it yet.
We scratch, we twitch, and maybe we call Bob from Accounting or send a copy of the typo around to people on our email list and announce we found a typo. No mention of a cure for cancer, but we found a typo. Unable to cope, we send the author an email pointing out their gaffe. All better now.
Seriously? That type of behavior reminds me of a cop who writes a ticket for a parked car because the meter expired while the burglar behind him tiptoes away with the booty. There are more pressing issues, especially in casual writing situations, when a typo can be overlooked.
So, besides the embarrassment, what is it about the typo that agitates people to no end? Is it our place to contact a blogger, or anyone, if they have a typo in their writing? When we make errors, are we as vocal about our mistakes as we are with the mistakes of others?
I read a couple of blogs that remain typo free, I commend you, and I’m sad – not really – to say I won’t be joining you in the ranks. I make typos here, not on purpose, of course, and if I’m a regular reader of your blog, then I leave typos there too. I might leave another comment asking the blogger (if I know them well enough) to fix my typo, or not, but I know I suck at proofreading.
Is that a lazy way of thinking. I suck so I refuse to try? No, I think it’s more of, I know when my writing needs to be error free and if I have an occasional slip of the finger, it’s not the end of the world, for me. I’m not saying we shouldn’t care or that it’s okay if our blog posts or emails contain errors, but if it’s a minor typo, can’t we all just get along, without the nitpicking?
Of course, no article, blog post or anything written should have an excessive amount of typos, it’s embarrassing and it looks bad.
If you’ve made a typo on your blog and someone contacted you about it, is it a big deal, do you freak out, become upset or do you say thank you and correct it?
I’m curious, how do you feel about typos? Should you or do you correct the typos from commenters on your blog? Is it about being perfect or not looking sloppy or ignorant?
I think Dee said it best when she said typos don’t appear until we (bloggers) hit publish.
This post was proofread by me and another set of eyes. I am nervously going to hit publish now, but if you should happen to find a typo, please do not email me, I made a mistake and I’m okay with it.
Additional Reading:
We all get one I’m not dead post, right? Well I’m cashing in the chips I should have turned in a few weeks ago, I really didn’t expect to be away so long.
I forget that not everyone knows where to find me on the web, but here, so if I don’t post or visit blogs, I appear to be missing. I don’t like it when people disappear or seem to have fallen off the face of the earth and I’m left wondering what happened.
It’s the same feeling I get when I’m picked up late and I don’t get an explanation as to why. I’m like whoa, whoa, whoa, no explanation? No, I’m sorry I’m late, but the engine fell out of my car or the dog swallowed my keys and I had to wait. Tell. Me. Something.
My explanation? The mental day I needed turned into a mental month. I hate being in a funk, but it happens. The weather also sucked, so let’s give some of the blame to Mother Nature.
Good news is, lately I have been in a great mood and I’m ready to come out of my dark cave and into the sunshine. Just wanted to say hello, I’m not dead, yet, and I appreciate the bloggers who stopped by to check on me. Meleah, thanks for “screaming” at me. I love how you just come right out and say it, “I need an update” and you bounce. Thanks for the nudge, sister.
In the meantime, I have been writing, rambling and amusing myself over here.
I’m turning the comment feature off for this post and will see you soon.
I hate rushing, I hate being unorganized and I hate being late, so I try to prepare as much as I can the night before so I’m none of the above. I set the breakfast table, iron clothes and make sure the bags are packed.
Yesterday morning I did everything but pick out what I was going to wear to work. When translated: I spend at least 10 minutes staring into a closet full of clothes, lamenting that I have nothing to wear.
Eventually, I decided on a black pair of pants, a beige colored suit jacket, a black scoop-neck tee and threw a pair of heels into a bag. Off I went.
I hopped in my car and as I’m nearing my job and stopped at a light, I figure now would be a good time to retrieve my shoes from the back. I reach behind my seat, grab the bag with my shoes and guess what? The shoes don’t match!
That’s not even the best part. When I arrive at my desk, I remove the shoes from the bag and not only do they not match, but I have two left shoes. That’s a problem, I have a left foot and a right foot.
W.T.H.
I also had somewhere to go after work and hadn’t planned on going home, so I did what any two year old would do when presented with shoes. I put those bad boys on and walked around like it was nothing.
I had to show my co-worker though, she said no one would notice. No sooner than she finished her sentence, in walked another coworker and she said, “I noticed when I was walking behind you, one is shiny and one is not.”
“Shut up.”
The left shoe on the right foot didn’t hurt at all and since most people think I’m crazy anyway, I prefer comical, I had no qualms about wearing two left shoes. It was only when I went to the ladies room that I felt a little self-conscious about who might be looking at my shoes. I silently cursed myself for not finishing the book, How to Levitate over a Public Toilet for Dummies.
After people finished laughing at my gaffe nobody seemed to pay much attention to my shoes until my last trip to the ladies room. I’m in one of the stalls handling my business and I hear someone say, “Bye Val, have a Happy Easter.” I’m thinking now how did they know it was me? Then I remembered the famous words of Mars Blackman: It’s gotta be the shoes.
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