Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Typo Time; More Proofquest 2

I was in a Starbucks on Saturday, and I'd left my camera in the car, so of course I saw an amazing typo on one of their signs. It's one of those things that isn't worth blogging about without a photo, and I didn't have time to go out and get the camera and get back in line, so today* I made a caloric sacrifice for you, my pets**, in order to show you this shining example of why proofreaders are worth it, even for small pieces.

*I actually was worried that the sign might have been taken down in the interim, so not only was I the person mysteriously photographing a sign while in line at Starbucks, I was the one doing so with a relieved smile.
**Because it's such a sacrifice to have a frap', especially when it's sweat-dripping-hot.



Because no, you can't just proofread it yourself. Apparently.

Unless it's meant to be some sort of "hip" take on "partnerships", but I think that's reaching pretty far into the improbable, don't you?

Honestly. I wonder how long those will stay up. In, presumably, every Starbucks store. If they hadn't been busy (both Saturday and today), I might have asked someone about it, but it was very busy, so oh well. If they want a proofreader, I'm available in three months.

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In the two months I've been commuting into Boston, I've only seen another knitter on the T once. One morning last week, though, as I was knitting on my scarf, I looked right and saw a guy (in a chef's working outfit) knitting what looked like a hat. Small world, eh? Or like attracts like?

I actually dropped a stitch as I was knitting that day--not one of the ones I was supposed to drop, I mean. I'm pretty proud that I managed to pick it back up, on the T, without a crochet hook or a spare needle or anything. Go me!

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Summer in the City
The train is cool, except when the doors open (every two minutes) and hot air puffs in.
The stations feel like the stagnant breath of demons.
Outside the hot air moves but doesn't cool.
Stepping inside is like walking into a fridge. Humidity condenses on the skin.
Half an hour later, there's still sweat under the layers, but goosebumps rise on exposed skin.
It's hard to take the sweater off to go back outside.
Through the door and whump! Instantly hot, as though cool never was. Sunglasses fog up. Sweat beads.

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I didn't end up getting job-seeker/business/contact cards after I left my last job, but I think I'll get them for Proofquest Take 2, if I can get what I want. I imagine that I'll have to get them custom-done, but perhaps I can find someone on Etsy who doesn't charge an arm and three legs for what I want.

I mean, I do not want a completely white with black type, IBM-type business card. But I also don't want to get too much Out There: no round or square or mini or extra-large. I am also not getting one that says Do Not Feed the Proofreader*, in case anyone was going to point that one out. (Though if I was a photographer, I think I'd have to get a card that says "I Shoot People". I mean, wouldn't you?)

*I want them to feed the proofreader, which is what hiring me does!

There are such a lot of cute designs out there that have nothing to do with my profession, so although they're tempting, they rule themselves out. I kind of like this typewriter one, but it isn't quite right for a proofreader, is it? And a microscope, while cool, is even farther away. I'd kind of like a magnifying glass, but I can't find one. I pondered, and decided that really, I want my contact info on a nice simple card, with a line drawing of a fountain pen and a pot of red ink. So we'll see if I can get what I'm imagining.

3 comments:

  1. When I looked at the typewriter one, my eye was drawn to one of cards on the side--the one with the coffee and glasses. (It says "writer" but you can change it.) I'm telling you: you want free coffee, put it on your biz card! :)

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  2. Partnerhips are what you get from too many frappes shared with a loved one.

    In keeping with the topic, my security word is "towells."

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  3. I love that sign. Why is it making me happy? IT JUST IS.

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