I've had to deal with this more than once and it irritates me beyond belief. For one thing, the corrector assumes that he is right and you are either misguided or stupid (probably both). This is annoying enough. But then you are faced with correcting the corrector correctly—and half the time they ARGUE with you. The other half of the time they are embarrassed and then become angry with you.

I once used the word "licit" in a legal writing and had a judge tell me that I meant "not illicit." I took a deep breath and replied, "Actually, I meant licit. It's a word. Look it up. You're a Catholic, you should know it." For some reason he accepted this and didn't hit me with a gavel. (Probably it was the comment on his religion. I was guessing, but the man's name is Peter-Paul and he's not of Italian extraction. It wasn't much of a stretch. If you were raised Roman Catholic, you understand what I'm talking about. If not… look it up.)

My husband has lived even more dangerously than that. When he was in the fourth grade, he informed a nun that she did not quite understand the commutative principle and that consequently her technique with the multiplication of fractions was yielding incorrect results. He very kindly presented a test paper to her in which he had reached accurate results that she had marked WRONG with red pen. (This was in the days before teachers realized that red pen is destructive to self-esteem. Actually, the entire education process is destructive to self-esteem. I really fail to see how red ink enters into the equation.) Anyhow, Mr. Marius requested that the nun address the erroneous grade she gave him. She refused, but she did permit him to live to tell the story.

In college I was an English major for about twenty minutes. It took me that long to size up the chairman of the department. She was a sarcastic bitch. Being one of those myself, I didn't want to cope with that in a department chair. So I became an instant French major. (It wasn't a total loss. I did learn that medieval French looks like Latin, but if you pronounce it like French, you can understand it easily.) Anyhow, I got stuck in this woman's Shakespeare class and of course she decided to pick on me. What else? Fortunately, she decided to cross-examine me about one of the kings of England who apparently was the subject of some Shakespearean play. Well… the guy is a hobby of mine. I can tell you his mistress's name (he only had one) and his bastard's name (again only one), what he favored for breakfast when on the march and what type of horse he preferred. So the professor asked me sarcastically, "If you know so much, what was his mother's maiden name?" So I told her, along with the queen mum's nickname. The professor sneered and corrected me. Incorrectly. So I had to correct her. She was peeved. But I got an A anyhow. (Blind grading is a wonderful concept.)

This isn't a new phenomenon. As H.L. Koopman wrote in 1917, "The most baffling device of the imp is to cause a new error in the process of correcting an old one. This residuary misprint is one against which there is no complete protection. When General Pillow returned from Mexico he was hailed by a Southern editor as a 'battle-scarred veteran.' The next day the veteran called upon him to demand an apology for the epithet actually printed 'battle-scared.' What was the horror of the editor, on the following day, to see the expression reappear in his apology as 'bottle-scarred'!" H.L. Koopman, "The Perversities of Type," in The Booklover and His Books 152, 157 (1917).

My husband and I have built a new house, and are in the process of moving. Naturally, being internet addicts and tv-aholics, we checked into the availability of cable (internet and television) before EVER seriously considering the move. You can imagine my dismay when the cable company (unnamed for legal reasons but it rhymes with tomcast) said "your street doesn’t exist."

So my husband said, "yes it does."
"No it doesn't."
"Yes it does." (This repeated several times before I intervened and said "let me write them an email.")

Mr. Marius shrugged and hung up and I wrote the following missive:

Dear Mr. Cable.
I want cable. Give me cable. You people say my street does not exist. It exists. Give me cable. My neighbors have cable. I want cable. You told them the street does not exist. But you gave them cable. I want cable. Give me cable. Give me cable now.

So… they are coming tomorrow to install cable.

I can't take credit for that technique. My mother taught it to me. When I started high school, the uniforms were supplied by Eisenberg and O'Hara. Only… they did NOT supply my uniform! So she wrote them several business type letters, which they ignored. My dad's attorney wrote two attorney letters. Which they ignored. So.. then my mother wrote the following:

Dear Mr. Eisenberg and O'Hara:
You have my $39.12. You did not send my uniform. But you kept my $39.12. I want my $39.12. You have my $39.12. You should not keep my $39.12. It is not right for you to have my $39.12. I want my $39.12. Give me my $39.12. I want my $39.12 now. Give me my $39.12 now.

About a week later… a check arrived in the amount of $39.12.

I'm afraid that Faeona CuChulainn is correct. I'm a curmudgeon. She made this ruling after I posted my attack on traditional Christmas music. However, she's known me for years and no doubt has observed other signs of incipient curmudgeon-like activity creeping into my daily routine.

I got up early this morning--a Saturday no less--for reasons that pass my understanding. There were many things to do, of course. The dishes need to be put away from last night, I have several posts that are overdue in AW, I need to go kill somebody in a group on another site, and there is always the burning need to read romance books, shovel the driveway, go get gasoline and groceries and process the bills that are staring at me from their evil address window cut outs.

So I was sitting at the computer playing Spider Solitaire (a new time wasting addiction I really had no need to acquire) and the telephone rang. It was a Sweet Young Thing from Verizon, an axis of evil as yet unidentified by the White House. I could have told her "buzz off kid, ya bother me" but I did not. Instead I explained that "we don't take calls before noon on Saturday."

Long pause.

"Oh?" (on a delicate note of inquiry).

"Oh no," I replied breezily. "On Saturday morning, after a lengthy bout of intensely chakric and chthonic lovemaking, my husband and I like to debate the finer points of Canon law while we bathe and dress."

"Oh." (The tone was flat this time and a bit concerned. I think she was trying to figure out what "chthonic" means. I can never remember either, but it’s a cool word and I had to learn to spell it for some nun or other who was trying to educate me so I reserve the right to use it any time I please.)

After another long pause, Sweet Young Thing said, "Okay, well I'll call back another time."

Perhaps I'm not so much a curmudgeon as I thought I was. After all, dealing with dark forces like Verizon, AT&T, Darth Vader or the Goa'ul demand a certain level of firmness and duplicity.

In any event, the telephone ring was useful because it awakened my husband who feels a deep need to prepare freshly ground coffee and home made blueberry muffins in celebration of the total rout of the Minions of Evil. (Well one of the minions anyhow.) He's now out in the kitchen singing about fromage. At least that's what it sounds like he's saying.

On the whole, it's been a good morning.

For some reason, Eriessa Marius acquired a bunch of tickets to the dress rehearsal of La Traviata by the local Opera Company. She coerced me and our friend--well let's call her "Justicia" (since that's her internet nic)--to go with her.

The disasters began at dinner. Eriessa ordered some sort of cake and it turned out to have cherries in it. She was outraged that anybody would contaminate an innocent cake with "fruit matter." The management of the restaurant was left in no doubt that some people do not appreciate the joy of fruit in their cake. I no longer eat in that restaurant. I'm afraid to go back.

The Opera Company had engaged a Famous Tenor who got sick and could not appear. So, they had to import a new one. They had no costume for this man. So… Violetta paraded around in all her lavender and lace and Alfredo wore jeans with a hole in the knee, sneakers and a really bad 'tude.

The performance was totally surreal. I wish I had a film of it. Alfredo just stood like a stick, with one hand in his jeans pocket looking like he was… well, never mind what it looked like he was doing. Every once in awhile Tito Capobianco (the artistic director and overlord) would zoom out from the wings, grab Alfredo's offending hand and position it in some more acceptable fashion. As soon as Tito disappeared, the hand returned to its pocket activities.

The Famous Soprano was miffed at Alfredo's attitude. This was unfortunate because of all the love scenes in La Traviata. She really looked like she wanted to clock him with a two by four. He never looked at HER at all. Which was awkward during the pretend smooching sequences. He just stood like a stockfish (hand in pocket) and stared vaguely at the center of the first balcony. Really, Violetta's scenes with Alfredo's dad were much warmer than her duets with Alf himself.

Now I realize it was a "rehearsal" but it was a dress rehearsal. And we paid money to see this debacle. The grand culmination of the evening came when Justicia announced (in a loud voice) "this really sucks" just as the music got all soft. Justicia has a very carrying voice. Eriessa replied (in an even louder and more carrying voice) "Yes, it does. They really ought to call this La Travesty not La Traviata."

Unfortunately, Capobianco chose that precise moment to materialize for the purpose of extracting Alfredo's hand from pocket city. Everybody in the audience froze as Tito turned majestically to search for the source of the disturbance.

My luck ran true to form and he decided that *I* was the evil presence. (The nuns in grade school always blamed me for the depredations of the person sitting next to me also. I really was a very well behaved child.)

Anyhow… Justicia had had enough. She rose from her seat and announced, "These people are such AMATEURS! I'm leaving and I have the car keys."

So Eriessa and I followed her out to the street. About a quarter of the audience slinked out in our wake.

Tito Capobianco resigned his position as artistic director and overlord of the opera company not long after that. And the Famous Soprano has never returned to town. I like to think that I played my part in opera history.