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| "Pubic Affairs" |
I totally get that this is the worst week of your life. I get that you want to resign and then die of mortification and then wake up and die twelve more times. I know that reading my little ol' blog is probably the last thing you want to do.
But, from one communications director to another, I have to tell you that...
TYPOS HAPPEN.
Even to the best of proofreaders. Even to the best of writers. Even to the best of spellers.
Even to Sooners.
I've been waiting nine months for an appropriate moment to share this blog entry that I wrote back in September and I just feel so bad for whoever you are right now that I'm finally willing to reveal my own typo story today, just to let you know that typos really do sometimes... just...happen.
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It all began on a beautiful Thursday morning. I sprung out of bed. My favorite blouse with ruffles was clean. I had time to get Starbucks on the way to work. The office was quiet.
What I'm trying to say is -- all signs pointed to a good day ahead.
About 9:30 a.m., I got a call from my co-worker, letting me know that a shipment of Chi Omega's latest issue of the national magazine had finally arrived from the printer. The call was the equivalent of Christmas morning for me.
Now, as just a tidbit of background info for you readers, while supervising our sorority magazine is only one aspect of my job, it's a HUGE component. It goes to a bajillion people (okay, 200,000) three times a year and, because it is such a big investment of time and moolah, every single word, picture, title, caption, etc. is nitpicked, re-nitpicked, and triple-nitpicked to perfection.
Did you hear me?
PER.
FEC.
TION.
PER.
FEC.
TION.
So even though I'm usually the type of person who doesn't wash their whites separately from their colors, could go months without cleaning their shower, and regularly uses salad dressings grossly past the expiration date....I am a crazy, anal-retentive, perfectionist about this magazine.
I practically hurled myself down the stairs as I raced to the mailroom to get my first look at the glossy, final product. I ripped open the box, took one look at the beautiful cover...
And did a double-take. And a triple-take. Then gasped and covered my mouth.
There, on the front cover of my precious baby the magazine was a typo.
A TYPO.
Adding insult to injury, the misspelled word was "Fraternity"... soon to be known to hundreds of thousands people as "Fraterity."
A TYPO.
Adding insult to injury, the misspelled word was "Fraternity"... soon to be known to hundreds of thousands people as "Fraterity."
Dumbfounded as to how this error could have ever possibly happened, I did what any rational person would do: I checked every single copy in the box to see if the glaring error miraculously happened to only be on the one I was holding, or if the mistake made it's way onto each and every copy.
Yeah. You know the answer, and so did I.
After taking a moment to shriek a very bad curse word that greatly deviated from Chi Omega's charge, "to speak kindly," I raced back up the stairs to call our printer in Ohio, just to see if by some miracle, the post office hadn't yet shipped the 200,000 copies for distribution.
No such luck. My jolly contact at the printer informed me they had all been sent out earlier in the week. Damn our hugely efficient vendors...DAMN THEM!!!!
This left me with only one option that really, really, REALLY didn't appeal to me -- to tell my boss the truth.
Now, for the record -- I don't FEAR my boss... but it's certainly never great to have to tell a figure of authority that you have really bad news...and no way to fix it. Nevertheless, I marched into her office confidently (though she might retell it differently), informed her of the situation...and then basically proceeded to burst into a hysterical, snotty, blubbering mess of tears.
At one point she had to leave to get me more Kleenex from another office.
At another point I confessed to her I felt I should resign. Lucky for me, she said she wasn't going to let me.
At another point I confessed to her I felt I should resign. Lucky for me, she said she wasn't going to let me.
No, she wasn't mad at all; in fact, she even tried to console me with stories of mistakes she had made at work before -- by the way, none of which were even comparable to a TYPO on the COVER of a magazine going to 200,000 people.
I had to face the music and spent the rest morning tearfully calling a variety of important individuals at Chi O to inform them of the error, most of whom I couldn't say ten words without reverting back to a state of incoherent sobbing. No one was mad, just disappointed -- which made it even WORSE.
Why wouldn't someone just YELL at me already?
Needless to say, my morning did not go as planned. And neither did my afternoon.
Around 12:45 p.m., I realized I hadn't had a morsel of nourishment since the frothy Starbucks latte that I had sipped so innocently five hours prior. So I did something really bad out of desperation -- I went through the drive thru at Taco Bell.
(Don't you dare judge me, you Anti-Chalupites.)
Determined to make this miserable day productive somehow, I decided to run an errand and get gas at the BP next door to Taco Bell before heading back to work, bearing tears and nachos.
While I fueled up, I got lost in thought, imagining every single Sister I have ever met who would get a copy of the magazine, see the typo, see my name, and probably point and laugh and then defriend me on Facebook for my mistake. I imagined hundreds of donors who would demand their money back because of my egregious error... chapters that would call and want to revoke their charter... parents who would force their daughter to resign because of such a misspelling.
(These thoughts were obviously completely unfounded and irrational. But, who's to argue with the thoughts of a woman hysterical enough to go to Taco Bell mid-day?)
I became so clouded in this daydream/nightmare that I failed to notice gas was leaking from the nozzle...all over my pants and scarf.
That's right. I'd pretty much stood there for five minutes, voluntarily letting gasoline leak all over me.
And that's when I decided to die.
No, no I didn't.
But I felt like I wanted to.
I couldn't return to work smelling like I'd been at NASCAR, so I had to think of an alternative solution. Luckily, Brendon's house was close to my office so I headed to his place to throw my slacks in his washer and weep, pants-less into my soggy Taco Bell.
I had to face the music and spent the rest morning tearfully calling a variety of important individuals at Chi O to inform them of the error, most of whom I couldn't say ten words without reverting back to a state of incoherent sobbing. No one was mad, just disappointed -- which made it even WORSE.
Why wouldn't someone just YELL at me already?
Needless to say, my morning did not go as planned. And neither did my afternoon.
Around 12:45 p.m., I realized I hadn't had a morsel of nourishment since the frothy Starbucks latte that I had sipped so innocently five hours prior. So I did something really bad out of desperation -- I went through the drive thru at Taco Bell.
(Don't you dare judge me, you Anti-Chalupites.)
Determined to make this miserable day productive somehow, I decided to run an errand and get gas at the BP next door to Taco Bell before heading back to work, bearing tears and nachos.
While I fueled up, I got lost in thought, imagining every single Sister I have ever met who would get a copy of the magazine, see the typo, see my name, and probably point and laugh and then defriend me on Facebook for my mistake. I imagined hundreds of donors who would demand their money back because of my egregious error... chapters that would call and want to revoke their charter... parents who would force their daughter to resign because of such a misspelling.
(These thoughts were obviously completely unfounded and irrational. But, who's to argue with the thoughts of a woman hysterical enough to go to Taco Bell mid-day?)
I became so clouded in this daydream/nightmare that I failed to notice gas was leaking from the nozzle...all over my pants and scarf.
That's right. I'd pretty much stood there for five minutes, voluntarily letting gasoline leak all over me.
And that's when I decided to die.
No, no I didn't.
But I felt like I wanted to.
I couldn't return to work smelling like I'd been at NASCAR, so I had to think of an alternative solution. Luckily, Brendon's house was close to my office so I headed to his place to throw my slacks in his washer and weep, pants-less into my soggy Taco Bell.
It was a low moment. As I sat there alone mid-afternoon, donning nothing but a blazer, undies, and my favorite blouse in my boyfriend's kitchen, weeping into my cheesy gordita crunch, and reeking of Talladega, I heard a little voice.
It's gonna be okay.
I know. I was shocked to hear it too -- especially given the mid-day pants-lessness situation.
But it was true. Despite a really crummy day, it was going to be okay...I knew I was going to be okay. My family was healthy. I had good friends. I had a job. Somehow, I knew it was just a really bad day. And those happen from time to time.
I managed to return to work with clean pants. I still cried for a full 48 hours afterward, but, eventually, I had to make the decision to move on.
********************************
Nine months later, as I'm typing this, I haven't received one negative comment about the typo from a reader. Not even from the cover girl (and hey, if you want to see her reaction to finding out she was on the cover, check out the video).
Why was I so distraught about a TYPO? I realized...it wasn't because I care so much about me; it's because our members care so much about the organization...and I care so much about making them proud of it.
So, UT School of Public Affairs Communication Director, whoever (whomever?) you are....I get it.
No, I didn't write "Pubic" to thousands of parents and family members, and, no, my typo story didn't make the Huffington Post...but trust me when I say that I understand that the biggest person you let down is yourself.
But, I have good news.
Yes! Good news!
The good news is everyone will keep liking the University of Texas just as much as they did before the typo. Donations won't go down. Enrollment won't decrease.
(How can anyone can even like that concrete wasteland to start with is beyond me, but whatever.)
In fact, the best news out of all is that YOU WILL NEVER LET THIS HAPPEN UNDER YOUR WATCH AGAIN.
You will never have another front cover typo.
And I hope knowing that you aren't alone in the "I made a bad typo" world makes you feel a smidge better. I really do.
So, UT School of Public Affairs Communication Director, whoever (whomever?) you are....I get it.
No, I didn't write "Pubic" to thousands of parents and family members, and, no, my typo story didn't make the Huffington Post...but trust me when I say that I understand that the biggest person you let down is yourself.
But, I have good news.
Yes! Good news!
The good news is everyone will keep liking the University of Texas just as much as they did before the typo. Donations won't go down. Enrollment won't decrease.
(How can anyone can even like that concrete wasteland to start with is beyond me, but whatever.)
In fact, the best news out of all is that YOU WILL NEVER LET THIS HAPPEN UNDER YOUR WATCH AGAIN.
You will never have another front cover typo.
And I hope knowing that you aren't alone in the "I made a bad typo" world makes you feel a smidge better. I really do.
But, as a side note...I totally get if you never want to re-wear the outfit you were wearing when you found out the bad news.
I haven't worn that favorite, ruffly blouse of mine since.
I haven't worn that favorite, ruffly blouse of mine since.
