Today...by 8am I had done something so stupid it's beyond imagination. I was wondering if in honor of my stupidity you could relate to us one of the stupidest things an author, editor, etc has done in your general direction.
Oh, I'll do you one better. I'll give you a story of Miss Snark doing something so stupid that family members STILL remind her of it YEARS later.
Back when Miss Snark managed to snag a sheepskin and matriculate from an institution of higher learning (bribes are not tax deductible; did you know that?), she decided to bestow her presence on the world. Traveling with a bevy of friends Miss Snark embarked upon the Grand Tour. London, Paris, Venice, the fleshpots of the Casbah...Miss Snark was ready for anything.
While in London, the idea arose that instead of gadding about on stuffy old rail cars, the Snark Ensemble would ...drive. Yes indeed. In a right hand drive vehicle. Well. Arrangements were made, a vehicle secured, permits stolen, and off we went in style. Those round abouts in Britain were quite the adventure..who knew you were supposed to stop?? We thought the Brits were a tad vocal in their welcoming..turns out that "you bloody twit of a girl" doesn't mean "hi let's get a beer at the nearest pub" even when it's said in plummy tones.
So, the adventure continues. We motor about England. Then, the idea dawns that really, we could just drive over to France too. So we do. On a Sunday no less.
We zip off the ferry in France. France! Land of cheese, snooty waiters and DIOR!! We're all a'twitter. Then we realize the car is not just a'twitter, it's a'shakin. We need petrol and soon.
We motor up the road and find a petrol station. Miss Snark leaps out and gazes at the pumps. Mind you, she's been studying French since she was a pup, and can read not only novels but nuances of the sneers of French waiters.
She pumps the petrol, pays the French version of Trixie the Truckstop waitress, leaps back into LeCar and speeds off into the French countryside in pursuit of adventure. Marvelleux.
Soon it becomes apparent something is very very wrong. LeCar is having le last gasp. It is shaking more than Killer Yapp at a Doberman poker parlor. Le Car is clearly les miserable.
We limp into the next ville. We just happen to see a sign "Renault" and we are driving a Renault. Huzzah. Into the repair shop we go. We climb out of the car like clowns at Ringling Brothers. The grizzled grease monkeys with unlit Gauloise hanging from their sneering lips eye us like we're cherry tarts fresh from Le Frigidaire.
Miss Snark steps up to the plate. In all her years at Miss Muffet's Finishing School for Girls, automotive repair has never been on the French vocabulary quiz. No matter. "Ma voiture est malade," Miss Snark smiles. "Aidez-moi, s'il vous plait?".
The Gallic grease monkeys drop their gauloise and their sneers and laugh uproariously. But by god, they gather round and through various combinations of French, English, note paper and drawings that could be in the abstract expressionist wing at the Met, it is determined that Miss Snark has, oh yes, filled Le Car with Le Diesel.
Diesel of course is toxic on normal engines. And that they sell it at the pump next to regular and unleaded is clearly madness, but they do. And Miss Snark had never realized that Gazoil is French for "diesel". Well, now she knows.
And so does Amex who paid the freight on that little repair. Cost me two pairs of Manolos to fix the damn thing.
And of course, whenever Miss Snark needs to be brought down a peg or two by her nearest and dearest DNA pool party mates, they simply say "gazoil" and Miss Snark is crushed into silence.