Why Is Proofreading So Hard?

A million years ago I started my college career as an English major. I have years of English classes under my belt. I also have science classes and business classes, but that’s a different issue.

I am a writer. I write for a blog, for an e-zine, and am working on a book. Language is my friend. I know the difference between “they’re,” “their,” and “there” as well between “to,” “too,” and “two.” I know when to use “affect” and when to choose “effect.” My vocabulary is large, which is great because I can’t spell well and so I usually can find another word to use that I do know how to spell.

I do proofread all the stuff I write. I also taught my students to chant “F7” which is the hot key on Microsoft products for Spell Check. Except my new keyboard uses F10 for some bizarre reason, unless I tell it to use different keys. I realize, however, that checking the spelling isn’t the same as checking the words. “To” may be spelled correctly, but if I am talking about “too” much of something “to” isn’t the correct word.

I cheat sometimes and make what I write work for two things. The e-zine uses reader submissions and I oftentimes send my blog piece in for a reader submission piece. I get a double bang for my buck.

When publishing, I truly do look over what I wrote and always run spell check. I can’t believe how many mistakes still get past me. Then I see it published and I’m appalled. Why can’t I see the mistakes before publication? Why are they so glaring after publication?

I assume the answer to that is twofold. First, while writing I whiz along trying to get my ideas onto the screen before I lose them completely. I’m typing as fast as I can hoping to say what I want before I forget what it is that I’m trying to say. The second problem that I can see is that I proofread very soon after I actually type. I know what is supposed to be there and as I read, I expect to see what I think I wrote.

I would like to blame some of the errors on the fact that it is on the computer instead of a printout. It is much easier for me to see errors on a printout than on the screen. Probably because of the degaussing of the screen, that flickering stuff as the screen reloads itself. That sounds plausible until I realize that when I’m reading what I wrote in an e-zine or on a blog, it is on the same computer I used to compose the thing.

I know that even well known authors in printed books by reputable publishers have typos in them. At times it is a missed word and other times it is the wrong word. I never feel cheated by their inopportune usage and figure it is one of those fleeting errors that really don’t make a difference. However, in my own writing, I’m less charitable, less kind, more critical, more embarrassed.

Knowing how much the errors irritate me, one would think that I would make a more concerted effort to correct them before hitting the send button. But one would be wrong. I’m not even sure why. I think perhaps I’m more confident of my typing skills than I should be. That, or I know that typos don’t kill people, they just irritate me.

Who Owns this Computer?

I have noticed that I no longer am the entity in charge of my computer. My computer’s boss vacillates between my protection program – McAfee on this computer – and Microsoft. I am way down on the list of “who is in charge.” I’m finding it more and more annoying.

The protection is more of a problem than the threats ever have been. I had Symantec on my desktop computer and it took so long to start up and make sure that everything was okay that by the time I could use the dumb thing my coffee was cold. I hated the wait. Especially when the dumb computer had already been started once that day and I was rebooting because of some other hanging trouble.

So when I got a new laptop, I installed McAfee. It came with preinstalled Office, which is nice, but it was a trial version and I own the real thing. OneNote was included in the trial, but I have no use for one or even two notes. I am not a business. I just want a word processing program. I don’t know what OneNote would have done to impress me because I never used it.

However, when I downloaded Office updates, it downloaded something for OneNote that means that I can spin in circles and whistle Dixie while speaking five foreign languages to create a work around. Or I can never update my Office again. Guess which I will choose. And I’m fairly computer literate. I wonder what people who aren’t even as knowledgable as me would do.

I am on several mailing lists. Each list has had trouble with bouncing mail in one form or another. The spam filters seems to have no problem allowing for advertisements for enlarged male genitalia to get through, but mail that I might want is a risk. I have gotten several mailings from a bank I don’t use that has a suspicious link attached. But stuff I ask for is dangerous.

It has gotten to the point that there is so much protecting me going on that I can barely use my computer. Perhaps that is why it is safe – it’s a paperweight.

After I purchased McAfee, I found out that ad blocking doesn’t work for Netscape or Firefox because they don’t include Active X. McAfee assures me that they are not owned by Microsoft, but their program only works with Internet Explorer and if you want to use another brand, well, you just wasted your money. But I prefer the tabbed browsing. So IE has a newer browser out that uses tabbed browsing. Great. McAfee doesn’t work with that either, and now I have no idea why and thank God I can still get the annoying ads flickering.

I have been using Webshots for about six years now. I was downloading pictures when they were all free. And only in one format. But now that I am being protected after six years of use, I have to click in three places to download each and every picture because the new and improved tabbed IE thinks that it an evil site. I have tried several different methods to get IE off my back and let it know that this is my computer and I download at least two new pictures every day and I have been doing it for years on several different computers, none of which ever had a problem, and I want to continue to use my computer the way that the person who paid for it chooses. IE laughs maniacally and lets me know it is for my own good. I can’t use my own computer the way I want to use it. Other people know better.

All the protection is doing is making me have a harder time using the computer I bought for specific purposes. I don’t feel helped. I am about to turn off all protection devices. I’m sick of not being able to use my machine. I tried to turn off the security inside IE, but it won’t let me. Bill is my friend and he is here to help.

Once in a Lifetime OR I Never Go Anywhere

I have heard that there are things that can happen only once in a lifetime. I heard this from my son when he was looking for “an early birthday present” in order to go on spring break. First it was a once in a lifetime trip to Florida. Then a once in a lifetime trip to Mexico. Then a once in a lifetime trip to Florida. Oops. How can that be? Well, this time it would be legal to drink and that would make the whole trip different.

I, too, have had a once in a lifetime trip to Mexico. It really was the third time I was in Mexico, but Acapulco was much nicer than the border town I was in the second time I went to Mexico. And the trip was much longer. And it was a twenty-fifth anniversary trip. So it was once in a lifetime.

I’ve been on a once in a lifetime Caribbean cruise. The best part of that was that it was free. Not only free, but we got spending money, too. The cruise ship stopped in Mexico. I was looking for a rosary for my mother. I asked natives for a ”rosario.” Nothing. I tried “Ave Maria” and nada. I went to Latin, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” Ahh, “rosario.” Yeah.

Then I’ve been to Canada for once in a lifetime trips a few times. I went while I was in high school and that was really fun. I’ve been to Niagara Falls twice. I only remember once, but I’m told in no uncertain terms that I’ve been twice.

Then I had a truly once in a lifetime trip to Ireland with my sisters and OUR mother. The four of us toured the island and it was as much fun watching Mom as looking at the beautiful scenery and learning about the country. We went all over and saw dis and dat.

Now, we are planning a trip to Alaska. This is a combination cruise, for one week, and train/bus trip for a second week. The plan is to fly up, sail, up, and bus and train up, right up to the highest point in the USA, but we will only look at Denali mountain.

I’m usually pretty dang cheap when it comes to spending money on a vacation. I think of all the concrete things I could purchase instead and I shudder. But there is nothing that would replace Mom getting to kiss the Blarney Stone by proxy. The memories of the trip, the pictures, the stories, the scrapbook – all are tangible concrete things. From my once in a lifetime trip.

I plan the same for this next adventure. I will stockpile pictures, stories, memories. I will create another scrapbook. I can’t wait.

A Story - Yesterdays

The sun shone down over the white sands. The waves crashed into the boulders of the retaining wall throwing spray high into the air. Sea gulls soared and dived overhead. Their plaintive cries shrill at first and fading slowly away. The child played in the sand oblivious to all this, intent only on the mound growing beneath her hands. She was building a mountain. It would be the biggest mountain in the whole world, or at least on the whole beach. She laughed as she toiled under the sun. She worked at her own pace, creating as she saw fit. The day was endless. She was content.

The rain splashed into puddles on the road. Rivers ran in the gutters, disappearing into the grates in the street. It was warm out and the rain was refreshing. His mother was the coolest Mom because she let him play in the rain. He splashed in puddles and looked at the trapped faces peering out from windows. Jealousy rampant behind the glass prisons. He was alone, except for his sister far down the road. He was the captain on this gutter river. He was content.

Time flies even when it isn't fun. Homework done and handed in or "eaten by the dog" as the case may be. Chores completed even though no one would ever know if you made your bed or not. Lawns mowed and snow shoveled as the season dictated. Time, inexorably, marching on and on.

She sits behind the steering wheel all grown up. This was so fun even a few weeks ago. Why is she so nervous today? She turns the key and the engine comes to life. The instructor nods his head and inconspicuously grabs the seat. She puts the car in reverse and takes her foot from the brake. She steps on the gas, too hard. The car jerks backward and to the left. She slams on the brake and with wild frightened eyes, looks at the instructor. He murmurs a suggestion. She tried again. The car eases back. She is proud.

He sits in a large room with seemingly thousands of other seniors. He has three number 2 pencils with him as well as an eraser. He has always done well academically. His grade point average is well above the norm. He breathes slowly trying to calm himself. He opens the test booklet. There are millions and millions of questions here. His heart races. He has practiced for SAT testing and still he is shocked. The words dance on the page. He closes his eyes and says a quick silent prayer. He begins again. An eternity passes. There are ten more minutes to go until time is up. He has finished the last question. He is proud.

She screams. Her husband, the bastard, is over there telling her to breathe. That son of a bitch who did this to her is calm and collected. Sweat is pouring off her. The pain is searing, starting slowly to catch her off guard and then crescendoing into something wicked and evil. Where is the anesthetist? She was supposed to have an epidural. This is absurd. Why didn't anyone tell her it was this bad? She can't go on. There is no way to stop. Finally, they are setting up a kit to administer the anesthesia. Sit up, curl forward, hold still. Hold still? While having a contraction. Of course, the anesthetist is a man, too. All men are pond scum. If they had the babies, every child would be an only child. Kill them all. Warmth and ease seep through her body. The epidural takes effect. Four hours later she holds her newborn son. She is overjoyed.

He walks into the boardroom. This is his first time here. He gingerly holds the report in his hand hoping not to sweat on the paper and wrinkle it. He is trying to look nonchalant. He has worked for three solid months on this presentation. He has one shot, here and now, to get it accepted by these stone-faced suits that sit before him. They don't know how much time and effort have gone into these distilled twelve pages. His idea was brilliant, his wife said so. He worked at developing it with all details thought of and advance planning for every contingency. He then had to pare it down to be concise and presentable for these men who controlled his destiny. He conceived this idea almost a year ago and now he has 45 minutes to sell it to these graying cynical men. He begins his speech, his voice not wavering at all. He talks slowly at first and then begins to see some glimmer of approval from a few of the gray faces around him. He pushes forward and sells his idea. There are nods of approval around the table as he finishes. He is overjoyed.

She cries even though she knows she is supposed to be happy. She isn't losing a son, she is gaining a daughter. She is losing a son. She stayed up with him when he was sick. She helped him learn to tie his shoes and do his algebra homework. She was the one who was there for him. She urged him on when he was discouraged. She listened to his fears when he was sad. And now, this wench comes along, now when he is finally a joy rather than a responsibility and she runs off with this prize. How can she not cry? Her heart is breaking. Her son is no longer hers alone, he belongs to another woman. Another child really. Neither of them are old enough for this step. What will become of these two? Will they be happy forever after? Will they be able to elude the pitfalls of wedded disaster? She is heartsick.

He sits at the head of the table. His coworkers cheer him on. They are jealous of his good fortune. His good fortune, he thinks to himself. What is so good about this fortune? He has been a businessman for 39.75 years. Actually, he figured out how many days, two weeks ago. It was most of his life. This is the third company he has worked for. But he has been working for almost 40 years at "real" jobs. He has been working longer if you count the jobs he had to put himself through school. All the experience he has gleaned from the trials and tribulations of the work world. And now what? Retirement! They are putting him to bed. The end of the day has arrived. Tomorrow when he arises, there will be no need to tie the noose around his neck and head to the office. Life is now a perpetual weekend, without purpose. He must find a new purpose. His good fortune, ha! He is heartsick.

She sits quietly looking out the window. The old man next to her nods his head and smiles to himself from time to time. She remembers being young. How did she ever end up in a home for the elderly? She can't be elderly. Not like that old coot next to her. She glances quickly and notices that he has something in his hands. She turns to him and asks what he is holding. In an old man voice he answers, he received a letter from his daughter. He is going to be a great-grandfather. His voice wavers and cracks in that old man way, and he cackles rather than chuckles when he morosely says, "How did I ever get to be this old?"

They return to their silent thoughts, remembering days on the beach or splashing in puddles. Yesterdays.

How Much History?

I have been blessed with a phenomenal memory; or I have been cursed with a phenomenal memory. I’m not sure which it is. But I remember …

I remember things that are shaping my life today. I do not wish to be an intrusive mother-in-law. I want to be someone that is seen in a positive light. I do not wish to butt in where I’m not wanted. I do not wish to intimidate. I do not wish to be the focus of a twisted joke.

My own mother could say things to me that my mother-in-law could not. It is the way of the world. Even if they were the exact same things, I found it easier to hear from my mother. Not easy, just easier.

I have vast experience in raising children as evidenced by the fact that my sons are alive and well and adult. I did it. I have ideas about the right and wrong way to raise children. They are admittedly old-fashioned because I did all this raising long ago.

My mother-in-law has been a wonderful grandmother. She always had a drawer full of surprises for grandchildren when they visited. She liked having them around.

My mother-in-law was a stay at home mom and that colored her perception of what a mother should be doing. I was not a stay at home mom and that colored my own perception of what could be done in available hours.

Not once in their lives have my children told me that my furniture was dusty or that my dishes were not properly stowed in the dishwasher. They do not care today and they certainly did not care when they were children.

What my children were interested in was playing or reading or being together. I would choose to read a book to them rather than dust. Even today, I would choose to read a book rather than dust, but it is no longer Green Eggs and Ham.

I have sons. I know that a man’s home is his castle. I also know that the home belongs to the woman.

I am so worried about stepping on toes that I made an error in judgment. Who knew? I thought that a high chair would be a great thing to have. I could even give great reasons for a high chair. But I’ve never seen a high chair and it seemed so outright intrusive to buy one without approval. I should have. I have a high chair in my trunk right now. It’s not as nice as the one I could have had for ten bucks less.

I have to build my own relationship with my daughter-in-law. I can recall what I found to be less positive in my own relationship with my own mother-in-law and not do that. But I am not her, she is not me, my daughter-in-law is not me, and I have to forget.

But with that phenomenal memory thing …

Not As Important As The Wedding

Toilet Paper

I was traveling for a week. I spent ten hours in the car getting to my destination. I spent two days in a public elementary school. I stayed at my sister’s house for a few days. I spent two nights in a nicer hotel. I spent five hours in a car, stopped at a less nice hotel, and then spent another five hours in a car and finally arrived back home.

Someone said something about the average number of sheets of toilet paper used per trip to the bathroom. This got me thinking. All I can say is that not all toilet paper is created equal.

First, there is size. I’m not sure why public restrooms think my butt shrunk or I recently downsized my hands, but their paper is about one-half to one inch narrower than real toilet paper. This isn’t the best plan, but I realize that in rest stops along public highways, one is lucky to simply find any paper at all. I was grateful each time I could select one stall and have it stocked with all essential equipment.

Second, there is thickness. I don’t know if the sheets in the average talked about above were single- or double-ply. But the thickness of the toilet paper is very important. Very important.

Third, there is the actual paper itself. The cheapest paper seems to be smaller width, single-ply, and made to disintegrate on any contact with dampness. This is not at all helpful for the women’s bathrooms. Perhaps this stuff was invented and purchased by men. Women need some absorbency to their toilet paper since that is what we use it for most of the time. Having the tiny tissue paper stuff melt away leaves one feeling messy on so many levels.

What I noticed was that I did not count how many sheets of toilet paper I actually was using, but rather I was concerned with cubic mass. I needed length, breadth, and depth to make sure that my pristine hands were not drenched or otherwise soiled. Trying to wash one’s hands in a public restroom is another problem. No hot water, soap nowhere near the sink, and then the green friendly [how is wasting all that electricity green friendly?] hand blow dryers that never seem to get hands actually dry. Oftentimes, in a ruse to make a traveler attempt cleanliness, there is a paper towel dispenser. There must be a rule that this can only be filled every other Thursday if it happens to be a full moon.

I am back at my house with full sized paper that is two-ply and quilted with an absorbency quality that is up to the task. I am near sinks with handy soap dispensers and fluffy, clean towels. I guess I’m just not cut out for world travel.

Weddings and True Love

There are lots of types of love and weddings usually bring the spotlight to bear on the romantic type of love. However, in the past week, as I watched a wedding unfold, I am reminded of another type of true love.

Love can be many things. It can be kind and patient as a groom waiting for his bride to walk up the aisle towards him. It can be exciting like a gaggle of bridesmaids traipsing up the aisle forging a path for the bride. It can be steady like the father of the bride confidently taking his precious daughter’s hand and placing it into the hand of another man. It can be nervous and tentative as the couple repeat vows to each other.

Love is other directed. Rather than being consumed with the self, love is consumed with the other – the object of one’s love.

Perfect and undying love was in evidence at this week’s wedding. I’m sure the bride and groom will say that they saw it in each other’s eyes and heard it in the whispers of the other. They will say it was evidenced by the “I do” statements exchanged. And it was.

But that wasn’t the perfect love I witnessed.

The mother of the bride was driven to distraction by the demands placed on her. But she steadfastly held to a promise made fifteen years ago. She worked her usual schedule while still making three large containers of frosting, baking up seven cake mixes, rolling out fifteen pounds of fondant, and gluing on close to 500 little round balls to a cake.

She panicked, and rightly so, while flipping around fourteen-inch diameter cakes stacking two of them into a crooked pile that would be straightened with frosting. She nearly had a heart attack while rolling out a 22-inch circle of fondant to drape over those stacked cakes. Her hands shook with both fatigue and terror as she made layer after layer of pink and white confection. She was near tears with the placement of one tier onto another.

What I learned was that wedding cakes should be purchased regardless of the cost. I learned that fondant may give the cake a beautifully finished look, but the stuff is not at all tasty and makes the cake much more difficult to cut. I learned that regardless of the many details you take care of for any large event, there are details that are not thought of in advance or cannot be planned for. The event will still be wonderful regardless of the planning or the forgotten details.

I learned that the true love at the wedding is seen by many as residing in the bride and groom. But that is only because the mother stands aside to allow her daughter to shine.

Role Reversal

Years ago – decades ago – I was given two small people to show how to be in this world. There are days when I know I did good, and then there are other days. Mostly I am very proud of my sons. As every parent knows, there are times when I wish I could really be the boss of them instead of just pretending. It was ever thus. I’ve never had a lick of control over either of my sons. The best I could do was lead the way along a path of what I thought a good life looked like.

My sons are grown up now. They have made lives of their own. They have chosen paths that are exactly right for them right now. They have to be, otherwise they would choose different paths.

I look at them and admire their choices, their tenacity, their determination. I believe I did okay.

But …

I haven’t written here for a while. Too long. I am going to get a nasty email or phone call soon. My son will tell me that I am not living up to his expectations. I have not written anything.

That isn’t quite true. I’ve been writing a lot. I have written a couple weeks worth of articles for the ezine I contribute to. I have been working diligently on my book. I have spent lots of time writing this week. I just haven’t posted anything here.

That’s the issue.

I am trying to head off some castigating comments from the peanut gallery. I have no idea how these people got this way. Surely I never bossed my children around. It must have been all the television or video games. But if that is true, then I suppose it is still my fault because I allowed the TV and video games.

There is no way out of this mess other than to write something and paste it up on my blog. It is the only way to keep out of trouble.

Kids!