In February, I sent a stack of exactly 100 flyers to PPA, the Parenting Publications of America, with a check for membership and a smile on my face. I was gonna be syndicated. I was gonna be a rock star among mommies. I’d be the mommy all the little momlets wanna be like.
ppfffFFFFFffft.
They cashed my check. The flyers made it to the resource table. I was on my way, everything was great, all was well, waiting waiting waiting, lah-dee-dah.
Then more waiting.
Then, I was like, “WAIT!” Because, hold it–I was supposed to get a member-magazine roster. A list of all the magazines who hire PPA member writers (such as myself) and reprint articles that ran originally somewhere else (aka, syndicated articles), and where the hell was it? Because nothing like that ever crossed my mailbox/inbox/black-cat-strewn path. So I sent an email.
No reply.
I sent another email, this time with the original email attached.
No reply.
I sent a third email, this time with a terser tone and no room for questioning the state of my emotions. I was annoyed. Mad, even. I don’t like being ignored. And I had sent them money. MONEY, people. I attached the two other emails, with a curt little note about how they were attached. Something like, “Not that anyone will ever notice because I know no one is reading these emails, but I’ve attached the other two emails I sent that no one read. You know, in case you decide to take a peek. Or whatever.”
OK, I didn’t say that at all. But ten minutes later, I had a reply. A very nice one, from a woman who was very sorry to hear that no one had helped me yet. And through a series of three back-forth exchanges, we determined what the situation was, got eveything taken care of, and Very Nice and Sorry to Hear of My Unhappiness Woman promised–pinky swore, even–to mail me a copy of the PPA member magazine roster that was rightfully mine. I was happy. So I waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Today, I emailed the FIVE emails back to the same address, with a very short note: “Can I have my roster? I haven’t received it. See attached.”
Hours later, an email comes, equally short reply (“Please see attached.”), and would you freakin’ believe it, a MAILING LIST ATTACHED. As annoyed as I seem, I’m actually very excited. This is good news, you know. I have the list. I hold the list, the list of 128 publications to which I am kindly urged–nay, obligated–to send my column for syndication, in my hand. My left hand, because I type only with the first finger and thumb of my right hand, and obviously I’m writing this right now. But the point is that I have the golden ticket, the keystone, the decoder ring, the whatever-seemingly-magical-device-which-makes-all-things-possible in my hand.
So, I’ll see you guys later. I have queries to disperse.
