Why I hate my job

This morning I had one of those “Oh, @#$%&*” moments, when I realized I might’ve done the unthinkable: accidentally published a note to myself in the newspaper.

I hoped against hope that it wasn’t true, but when I opened Oct. 10 Mille Lacs Messenger, there it was, after a letter to the editor: (getting permission to run).

What’s really annoying is that I’ve known for a long time that writing notes to yourself on the page, with the intention of deleting them later, is a terrible idea. Journalists have lost their jobs over little inside jokes they’ve put in news stories, expecting an editor or copy editor to take it out.

Mine was not a big deal. I got permission to run the story, but forgot to delete the note. Just makes me look like an idiot.

Being the editor is like playing safety in football. You’re the last line of defense. Leif played safety this year, and every time the opposing quarterback went back to pass, I cringed and hoped he wouldn’t let the guy get by him.

During one game, the ball went up and I saw Leif running after the receiver, who had sprinted past him. The receiver caught the ball and had nothing but daylight, but Leif chased him down, grabbed his shirt, and tackled him around the 10. Wonder of wonders, the defense held, and our team won by a touchdown.

His old man’s performance yesterday was not up to Leif’s level.

And no, I don’t actually hate my job, except for a few minutes after I let the opposing team score a touchdown.

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