The above really old song was featured in the Tom Arnold/Jessica Lundy movie The Stupids and it just keeps running through my head.
About oh, two weeks ago something happened on my main e-mail account. At first I didn’t really notice there was a problem. Then I replied to a publisher and the e-mail was halted in its tracks for “having possible spam.”
I thought, “What? I’m sending it with the same stuff I always include in my freelance writing packets: resume, reference sheet and some links to articles-why would it now be considered spam?”
It took numerous re-sends, but it finally went through. Then it happened more and more vigorously within the next few days. I tried to get help from my server and was told I had been “blacklisted” for having sent out hundreds of spam messages to the same amount of ISPs.
“I most certainly did not!” I told my provider, adding that they were hampering my business and costing me both clients, publications and most important-INCOME.
The first two techs were not all that helpful in my quest to get back to work. The third gave me two agencies to contact and helped me send them requests to “de-list” me. Then he threw up his hands (I saw it through my telephone, I swear) and told me he had done all he could.
As soon as my husband (my own personal savior in so many ways) came home I set him to work on the problem. He wound up calling a fourth tech, who told him I was blacklisted because evidently someone (who is still nameless and obviously has not a drop of morals) hacked into my account to infiltrate other unsuspecting people. He gave my husband yet another two e-mail addresses to send my blocked clients’ addresses to so they could unblock them, one by one. Oh and to send it via my back up e-mail as obviously I wouldn’t get very far sending it from this one.
Yeah, right. This tech also said I might be better off killing this main account and making a new one! What? That sure met with scornful looks which my husband verbally passed on to techie #4.
It is a slow and painful task. I seemed to be able to send up to five or so e-mails in a day without a problem, after that-I’m told that I’m spreading spam and to save me from myself, I’m being blocked.
Hence why the song “I’m My Own Grandpa” keeps running through my head.
Now, if I could just get the vision of Tom Arnold out of my brain, it might not be all that bad.