Freakin' Amateurs

I am such a dumb-ass. Yesterday I was at the neighbour's for one of those kitchen parties (you know, with the utensils that cost more than a trip around the fecking world). My neighbour, who is sweet, introduced me to everyone as a "published author" and I modestly explained that my real last name is Atwood, which made them look at me like a bug, and then I said, "no, no, I'm a self-published author and everyone looked relieved because they weren't in the presence of greatness after all.

The sales lady asked me if I had my book edited and I said, well, yes, I have writer friends who edited it for me to which she replied, "I have a friend who self-published a book," and she proceeded to tell me that the book wasn't all that interesting and was absolutely full of spelling errors.

"Huh," I said, because I didn't know what else to say. I'll tell you what I was thinking, though. I was thinking, smugly, that my book is almost typo-free. I was thinking that her friend must be a fecking AMATEUR to put out a book with so many typos. I was feeling all, uppity about my typo-free self.

I will concede that there may be the odd mistake here or there, because nobody's perfect, but I am confident there are very few spelling mistakes in Green Eggs & Weezie, thanks to the eagle eyes of a whole bunch of my editing buddies.

So I looked at her, and smiled graciously, and thought how freakin' fantastic I am compared to her poor spelling-challenged friend.

Pride always goeth before a fall, yes it does.

Last night I was pleased to discover Amazon.com had released the paperback version of my book.  I was all, like, hooting and happy, going over the amazingly professional blurb that I had written for the back cover and then used as a promo to sell the darned thing. This is what I wrote:

Down-to-earth, darkly humorous and wise, Cathy Olliffe-Webster’s debut novel, Green Eggs & Weezie, casts a wry eye over what can happen when even the best marriages go bad. Through the beguilingly earthy Weezie Polk we learn that it’s not a good idea to whack a cheating husband with a Dr. Seuss book; that Anthony Bandero has nothing to do with a Brazilian wax; and that it’s never a good idea to pee your pants in jail.

Anthony Bandero.

ANTHONY BANDERO? Who the feck is Anthony Bandero????

My blood ran cold. I had meant to write ANTONIO BANDERAS, you know, the famous Latin heart-throb and all-round stud-muffin actor, and yet, in a moment of absolute idiocy, I had spelled his name COMPLETELY WRONG, thought it looked just fine in editing and then, not only put it on the promo, but also had illustrator Steven Novak put it on the back cover!

Yep, uppity me, typo-free since never.

Francine's Mad Typing Skillz

My friend, let's call her Francine, is the worst typist.

The. Worst.

Which is funny because she's a self-confessed computer geek who spends all day in front of a computer screen at work, then all night in front of her home computer either working, or searching for new cat videos. She knows every cat video ever posted on You Tube.

When Francine is typing, she types really loud and really fast. Everyone in the next town knows when Francine is chatting someone because her fingers are like ninjas, karate chopping the keyboard. Oh, I should talk – I type loud, too. My excuse is learning the newspaper business on an old Underwood manual typewriter. Man, you had to hammer those puppies, and then throw the return with muscles you didn't even know you had. I had a left arm like Thor. I had muscles in my crap.

With all this computer experience, though, Francine can't type to save her ass. Her typing is an ongoing joke around the office because what she's trying to say is invariably not what comes through her fingers. Sometimes you can figure out what she's trying to say. Sometimes you can't. And sometimes it's just plain funny.

Take last night, for example.

Last night I was in a baaaaaaaaaaaaaad mood. So bad, I found a picture of a growling dog and posted it on Facebook, and wrote this:

Am particularly grumpy right now but it helps to growl. Grrrrrrrrrrrr.

Right away, Francine wrote this: why so frumpy??

When I saw that, I was BUAHAHAHAHAHAing all over the kitchen. When I stopped laughing, for, like, two seconds, I wrote this: ARE YOU CALLING ME FRUMPY?

Then I was BUAHAHAHAHAHAing again, until I had to run to the bathroom so I wouldn't pee my pants.

Later on, Francine added another couple of comments, trying to explain that it is only her typing skills that suck, not her tact.

She wrote this:

you said you were grump YOU know what a bad typis I am how about a nice big glas af arm milk

A nice big glas af arm milk? 

BUAHAHAHAHAHA!