So as I was SAYING, before my stupid stupid stupid post went MISSING yesterday, I have a statistics textbook that I have to copy edit due on Monday, and man. Am I ever on top of that. Because I haven't spent all week being desperately ill or anything.
The place that I freelance for is always really nice to me, and I have yet to miss a deadline for them, and in fact now that it's been 10 years–which I just mistyped 120 years and it feels like that–with them, we don't even set up deadlines for me anymore. They send me a delightful statistics manuscript–exciting!–and I get it back to them in 10 days to two weeks.
But this time they sent it to me before Christmas, knowing I wouldn't get to it till after all the holidays were over, so I emailed Monica, the beleaguered person I deal with at the publishing company.
"So, um, when do you need this, drop-dead date? We never really said."
"Hmmm. Yeah. See, I got really sick last weekend and didn't get to look at this at all. And you know, I never missed a deadline with you, not even that time I had a death in the family, remember? So, when can I get this to you?"
This being sick thing. It's gotten me nothing this week. Ooo, except svelty-svelte svelte! This woman at work said, "You look so…what is it? You're so cute today!"
"I barfed and got skinny."
June. Always the pleasant coworker.
Anyway, so I have to, yes, proofread statistics all day, and the first person who asks, "Don't you have to know statistics?" gets slapped with Monica's liver. There is a statistician who reads for that stuff. I just check that the sentences are complete, the chapter titles are the same size, that the parentheses have a beginning and an ending, that the references are set up right, that sort of riveting thing.
Except for me that stuff really is riveting.
And you know what bugs me? Is when people use the word "grammar" to cover any error in a sentence." oh hai june luv her blawg bet my grammer is buggin ya!"
The word "grammar." Please look it up.
You know what I am? Not fun when I am in the middle of working my regular full-time job and then also freelancing.
Ooo, but you know what? After this charming project is over, the beleaguered Monica has another project for me, and I'd be the consulting editor! Doesn't that sound fancy? And she said they are gonna pay me $900 an hour. Okay, she did not say that much but it IS double what I usually make. I am fancy.
In other news, on the way home last night, the woman in the car behind me looked exactly like Margaret Thatcher. Oh, it was irking me. I kept thinking, She doesn't look THAT much like her, then I'd look in my rearview mirror and there she'd be again, totally Thatchering out. It was uncanny. It had no cans. She was driving a Lexus. Do you think Margaret Thatcher would drive a Lexus? Would she even know to stay on the right side of the road? Is Margaret Thatcher still alive?
More important, why is she following me?
Finally, I leave you with very important images which FAILED to make their way to this riveting blog yesterday, after I typed the whole effing thing and it disappeared.
I was thinking about my blush. I have this powder blush that Pal from MA talked me into getting, and I like it except it doesn't spread very well over my very opaque spackle foundation that Shields and Yarnell want to borrow. I was wishing I had me some of that liquid 8-Hour Blush from Cover Girl they made in the '70s, and does anyone remember that stuff? It came in a long round tall container with a white top.
Whenever Barry Gibb walks by a barber shop he finds himself wondering if they sell Brylcream, and now here I am wondering if I can get my hands on blush from the '70s. Or for that matter Brylcream, because I don't think I've ever seen Brylcream close up.
Anyway, I tried to Google this blush because it became an obsession, and gee, why am I gonna miss my statistics deadline? And I cannot for the life of me find that DING DANG blush, but I did find these important ads.
I think she'd need less makeup if she stopped rubbing up against stucco. And maybe more Prozac, less foundation, there, sister. Cheer up. Remember how Love's had everything? Makeup, perfume, I think even bath stuff. Where did they go? Where did our love go?
Hey, will you get my jean culottes out the dryer? Ima get on my bike and go to a field with my Ten O Six Lotion. This ad makes a ton of sense. But Bonne Bell was always schlepping us out to the middle of nowhere to tout her chemicals.
I have two things to say about this ad. Other than the 14 things I already said. A man came at me with those flowers, my throat would close up and I'd die before we could get to the ER. Romantic. And if I used Ten O Six at this juncture, my skin would shrivel up like one of those apple dolls.
It turns out I could look at old makeup ads ALL DAY. Again. Why the missed deadline. Sorry. I was in Lip-Smacker Land. I had ALL of these flavors. All of them. I didn't even LIKE some of the flavors, like root beer and Good and Plenty. Irrelevant. I had to have all of them. Bonne Bell Lip Smackers. The Beanie Babies of the '70s.
Note they had "orange pop" flavor and also Orange Crush flavor. Nice. Nice way to scam us, there, Bell.
Okay. I am going back to my statistics book, which is exactly as exciting as thinking about Margaret Thatcher and makeup in the '70s. Carry on.