Today’s Holidailies luck of the click: Meeting people in cyberspace.
I take this to mean either meeting your cyberbuddies in the flesh or running into people in cyberspace you already know in person. I’ve done both, and while the former is wonderful and I’ve made some very dear “real-life” friends that way, the latter can be downright hilarious, especially when karma is involved.
Take Ken, for instance. I worked for Ken in a consulting firm that handled publications for small trade associations. He pulled a huge bait-and-switch in that his expectations and demands were about 50 times more intense and burdensome than he let on in the interview.
Those who have ever worked in publishing of any kind will nod their heads in agreement when I say that it’s just a wee bit much to expect an editor to edit, lay out, write columns, solicit articles, sell advertising space, and handle circulation all for the same publication. No-no, we have word people, we have graphic people, we have ad people, and we have circulation people. Word people and graphic people often work together, and word people are wise to know the programs the graphic people use in case they have to go into a layout and tweak a typo or something at the last minute. But by and large, those are four different aspects of publishing, something I knew at the ripe old age of 28, having spent four years and a lot of money to learn. Ken seemed to know this, too, and went on about how this person at the firm handled layout and the other person handled ads, and everyone just kind of pitched in and updated the system when subscribers changed their addresses, etc.
Well, in my first two weeks there, he expected me to do all of that for not one, but two 48-page publications. But wait, there’s more! The first weekend on the job I had to fly to a conference to man the registration booth with other staff members. That sucked up Friday through Monday, and of course no one took a day off when we came back, so my first week on the job lasted 12 days.
The following Monday, Ken requested to see the completed layouts.
Of course I had not completed them.
And Ken was displeased.
In fact, Ken was so displeased that I still hadn’t pulled both of these publications out of my arse by the end of my third week that he fired me.
Fast forward eleven years and one divorce later. Newly single, I had no idea where or how to start dating again, so I signed up for a little service you may have heard of, Match.com.
You know where this is going.
Ken wrote again.
Oh, my profile was just lovely. I was witty. I was intelligent. I was attractive and vivacious, and we had many, many interests and hobbies in common. “Would a woman such as yourself consider meeting for a drink?”
Why, no. No, a woman such as I would not consider meeting for a drink. A woman such as I wound up temping for six months and maxing out her credit cards to pay her rent after a man such as he let it be known that he didn’t know his butt from his elbow when it came to publishing and fired a woman such as I, and therefore if a man such as he spontaneously burst into flames and no one else was around but we two, a woman such as I wouldn’t pee on a man such as he to put it out.
Write, proofread, and…
Odd, but on Match I ran into a few guys I had previously met in real life and didn’t like. One was a former coworker of my ex-husband’s. “Wait, aren’t you that jerk who made that awful crack about Mexican women at [colleague of his and my ex-hub]’s party when you saw that [colleague’s wife] was Mexican? Something about green cards and being elevated from cleaning lady to full-time servant?”
Another was someone I had a disaster date with in college, the kind of guy who thinks you’re supposed to sleep with him if he buys you dinner.
Needless to say, I wasn’t on Match for very long. That was right around the time MySpace started taking off, and I figured if I was going to fend off jerks through my computer, I could do that on there instead, for free—but that’s something for another entry.