*&%#!, I did it again

So I just got an article submission -- always good news. The writer was a goddess-type who did exactly what I need when articles are sent: she enclosed it as an attachment, and also included the article in the text of the email.

When this happens, after I'm done doing my happy-skippy-joy dance, I usually take a look at the article in the email itself. Sometimes the attachment is in a form my computer can't handle, and at this point I don't want to harass the sender to please do yet more work. If I like it, I can always copy it into a blank Word document and take it from there.

So here's what I do. ALWAYS. Pretty much EVERY DARNED TIME. (Excuse the shouting. It's aimed at me, in the vain hope that I'll figure out what I'm doing wrong and STOP DOING IT, ALREADY. Whoops. Sorry again.)

What I do is: I start to read the article in the body of the email. And I get interested. So I double-click on it so it gets big enough on my screen that I can read it more comfortably.

Okay. Fine. But this seemingly innocuous action takes me right out of reading-my-email mode, and shoves me front-row-center into the realm of I'm-an-editor-now.

So I read this lovely article (they're almost always lovely articles -- I really do have the most terrific writers), and I see a little something. In the latest case, it was someone who typed "every day" when she meant "everyday."

"Oh," I think to myself in pretty much so many words. "She meant 'everyday.' I am an editor. I shall fix that."

And how do I fix it? Why, by setting my little cursor between "every" and "day" and hitting the delete key.

What happens next comes as a surprise to me EVERY TIME. Why? Because I'm not you. I am Little Ms. Shouldn't Be Allowed Near A Computer. Ever.

If, like me, you're a fan of Bill Amend's comic strip Fox Trot, you'll know what I mean when I say that when you get me near a computer, I have all the wit, dexterity, and native ability of Roger Fox. If you're not a reader of the strip (which now, sadly, only runs on Sundays, since Amend is semi-retired and favors our lives with his presence only once a week), think Homer Simpson. Heck, in terms of sheer computer literacy, think Charlotte Bronte. Or Aristotle.

At any rate: I hit "delete," because (in this case) I wanted my computer to take out that pesky little space between two words.

My computer, being a good sort but rather literal-minded, hears my command and says to itself, "Delete? Oh. Okay." And then deletes whatever it has nearest to hand.

Which in this case is not the space between the two words, because so far as my computer is concerned, I have no business messing with that email so long as it's in email form. I can't go hitting delete and rewrite my merry way through the thing. It's not mine in that sense. Our relationship isn't at that point yet.

Now, if I'd opened up the attached document, I could delete to my heart's delight. And if I saved the attachment to my desktop and then started hitting delete, I'd even be able to find the changes I'd made afterward.

Or, if I'd copied the text of the article and pasted them into a blank Word document, I could, as one dear writer described what I was invited to do with her work, slice, dice, and make editorial confetti without any fear at all.

But I didn't do any of those. I hit delete with my email open, and with a particular email highlighted, or whatever the heck you'd call it.

So naturally the computer deleted the email.

And I was as shocked, amazed, and horrified as if this had NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE.

Fortunately, my email has a bulging "Deleted Email" folder. It's a cranky type, as I would be if people kept throwing stuff they didn't want in my room, so it doesn't always let me in the first try. But once I gain access, I can tug on my wading boots and squelch around in the slime until I find what I want and forward it out to my own dear email address again.

And the author of the piece in question will never know I accidentally deleted her submission like it was some icky medication-oriented piece of spam.

Unless I admit it in public, anyway.