When I was a kid, I earned money by typing out letters for my stepfather.
He ran a non-profit organization, and he would often have to send out letters to different businesses asking for sponsorship.
I would get ten dollars for every letter I typed out (your first clue that my stepfather wasn't exactly a professional when it came to making money) and it wouldn't usually take me very long.
...Except when I would decide to...let's say...edit some of his letters.
Admittedly this happened...pretty much every time.
I don't know if it was early onset control freak-ism or the fact that I genuinely wanted to help my stepfather acquire funds, but I couldn't help but...correct him.
Most of the time I could get away with it, but not when he'd dictate to me.
"Uh, do you really want to say 'I'm not trying to kiss your ass, but--'" I'd ask.
"Yeah," he'd say, "That's what I'm saying."
"But don't you think there's a better way to say it?"
"Yeah, you're right. Put 'I'm not trying to blow smoke up your ass, but--"
I'd sigh, and quietly write "I certainly wouldn't want to give you the impression that I'm trying to--"
"Hey! What are you writing there? That's not what I said."
"What you said is something a longshoreman would say to a woman in a short dress."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"Ugh."
"Is a longshoreman like a fireman?"
Inevitably, my mother would come downstairs to see what we were arguing about.
"He keeps trying to make me sound stupid," my stepfather would complain.
I would dramatically toss his ten dollars on the ground and go to my room, as if my services as a typist were in high demand. I almost wanted to add--
"You'll never see my face in this computer room/laundry room again!"
My mother would come to my room and tell me that I should patience with my stepfather. That he has to run his business his way, and that if I offer my help to my someone, I do it on their terms, not mine. Otherwise, I'm not really helping at all.
"Fine," I said, "Then you help him."
She'd reiterate that it was all about patience, and then she'd go downstairs to finish typing out my stepfather's letter.
Maybe she's right, I'd think to myself in bed, maybe I just need to learn to have more patience.
Then, from downstairs, I'd hear the sound of my mother's voice...
"You can't say it that way! They'll think you're brain damaged!"
Like mother, like son.
He ran a non-profit organization, and he would often have to send out letters to different businesses asking for sponsorship.
I would get ten dollars for every letter I typed out (your first clue that my stepfather wasn't exactly a professional when it came to making money) and it wouldn't usually take me very long.
...Except when I would decide to...let's say...edit some of his letters.
Admittedly this happened...pretty much every time.
I don't know if it was early onset control freak-ism or the fact that I genuinely wanted to help my stepfather acquire funds, but I couldn't help but...correct him.
Most of the time I could get away with it, but not when he'd dictate to me.
"Uh, do you really want to say 'I'm not trying to kiss your ass, but--'" I'd ask.
"Yeah," he'd say, "That's what I'm saying."
"But don't you think there's a better way to say it?"
"Yeah, you're right. Put 'I'm not trying to blow smoke up your ass, but--"
I'd sigh, and quietly write "I certainly wouldn't want to give you the impression that I'm trying to--"
"Hey! What are you writing there? That's not what I said."
"What you said is something a longshoreman would say to a woman in a short dress."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"Ugh."
"Is a longshoreman like a fireman?"
Inevitably, my mother would come downstairs to see what we were arguing about.
"He keeps trying to make me sound stupid," my stepfather would complain.
I would dramatically toss his ten dollars on the ground and go to my room, as if my services as a typist were in high demand. I almost wanted to add--
"You'll never see my face in this computer room/laundry room again!"
My mother would come to my room and tell me that I should patience with my stepfather. That he has to run his business his way, and that if I offer my help to my someone, I do it on their terms, not mine. Otherwise, I'm not really helping at all.
"Fine," I said, "Then you help him."
She'd reiterate that it was all about patience, and then she'd go downstairs to finish typing out my stepfather's letter.
Maybe she's right, I'd think to myself in bed, maybe I just need to learn to have more patience.
Then, from downstairs, I'd hear the sound of my mother's voice...
"You can't say it that way! They'll think you're brain damaged!"
Like mother, like son.
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