Frustrated

Everyone's entitled to a good rant once in a while, right?

I'll just assume that's true and plough right ahead: 

I am irked. And I can't seemed to un-irk myself. Perhaps this will help ...

The Background

Where I work, we publish a newspaper every week, but we also do a large amount of "job work" — mainly commercial printing like business cards, letterheads and forms. I design it in our office and when the job is done, I ship the PDF to our sister office, which does all the printing and finishing.

Usually, it works pretty well.

The Incident

However, the person who does the printing (we'll call him Ed) is kind of a jerk. I'd use another word, but I'm trying to keep this blog pretty G-rated. At his best, he's efficient and attentive to detail. At his worst (and this is where I usually find him), he's patronizing and fussy. 

There are two sides to every story — I know this  — and I try to be understanding. He does have a lot of work to do, between all the newspapers they print in addition to job work. And there's a lot about printing and running a press that I don't fully understand because it's not my job. But that's just it — I don't know how to do his job, so I don't tell him how to do it. 

Unfortunately, he doesn't extend me the same courtesy. There are several extra steps I have to take every week, either with job work or with the newspaper, that are unnecessary and bothersome to me, but make his job easier. If anything goes wrong, whether it's a font issue or a fuzzy graphic, you can be sure he'll tell me all about it. He is an "expert" on every single program we use — regardless of the fact I use them on a daily basis and he opens them, at best, once a month.

So, this week, we had a rodeo program to put together. It had to be done by Friday, but since I got the information on Tuesday afternoon, he didn't get the PDF until early Wednesday afternoon.

You would have thought I'd run over his dog, spilled his beer and thumbed my nose at him for all the indignation oozing from his pores.

I tried to be sympathetic, but I couldn't. I'd been pressed, too, and I'd gotten it to him as quickly as I could. Yet it was my fault. 

It always is.

Now my name is mud at the other office — how I made Ed miss out on a morning off because he had to come in to print the programs. Thing is, they don't know the rest of the story. All they know is what he tells them, and I'm sure it's a bit skewed in his favor.

•••

I'm trying to make like a duck and let this all roll off my back. It's not easy, though, because it's not the first time this has happened. We're supposed to receive top-notch priority with all of our printing, but often we're shoved to the bottom of the pile. If another newspaper is late with their deadlines, their publication is printed before ours, even if ours is on time. Why? You tell me.

I often think we should take our printing somewhere else, even though we're owned by the same company. Why stick with a company that consistently treats you as second-class and is insulting to your employees? 

And I don't buy his excuse of "Well, I was busy" because you know what? We're all busy - all the time. Me - I'm a reporter, photographer, paginator, photo tech, ad salesperson, circulation assistant, receptionist, proof-reader and graphic designer. Yet somehow, I manage to find time to do it all.

•••

I wish I had the chutzpah to tell him exactly what I'm thinking. But years of being polite and giving people the benefit of the doubt is hard to shake. So I keep taking his condescensions and biting my tongue. I don't how long I can put up with it. I just hope when I reach my limit, I can be respectful and professional about it.

I hate summer.

It's so HOT. 

And it's going to stay hot. This pleases me not at all. 

You see, I'm a cool weather kind of girl. I'd much prefer to shiver than to sweat. My ideal vacation spot is not Hawaii or Cancun - rather, I dream of a cabin on the lakefront in Door County, Wisconsin. 

And have I mentioned that it's HOT?

I am so very grumpy in the summertime. Jim's noticed it, I think, and if he hasn't yet, he will soon. I will whine like a hungry kitten if I have to be outside in the summer sun for longer than five minutes. (If I am by the lake or pool, with a cold drink in hand, I can last a bit longer. Like maybe 15 minutes.)

I am not proud of this; I'd like to be hardier - a sunflower instead of a bleeding heart. But I am not. 

And therefore, I dread the summer.

However, there is an avenue I'm exploring which could help combat sweaty summer swamp butt: Thrift store skirts.

Between a consignment store in West Point and a thrift store in Norfolk, I've purchased three skirts and three dresses, plus some black capris (that fit perfectly!), a pair of shoes and several blouses, all for about $50. The skirts are perfect for work - they're long enough to be modest, but still light enough to stay cool. And since I have rotten luck with shorts (they never, ever look flattering - why???), they are a blessed solution. 

I may never buy anything new again. 

So while the summer may be hot and horrible, at least I'll be staying cool (and relatively richer, since I'm spending less on clothes). 

Who knows when death may overtake me?

"Who knows when death may overtake me?

Time passes on, my end draws near.

How swiftly can my breath forsake me!

How soon can life's last hour appear!

My God, for Jesus' sake I pray

Thy peace may bless my dying day.

•••

"Then may death come today, tomorrow, 

I know in Christ I perish not;

He grants the peace that stills all sorrow,

Gives me a robe without a spot. 

My God, for Jesus' sake I pray

Thy peace may bless my dying day.

•••

"And thus I live in God contented

And die without a thought of fear; 

My soul has to God's plan consented

For through His Son my faith is clear.

My God, for Jesus' sake I pray
Thy peace may bless my dying day."
"Who Knows When Death May Overtake Me" by Aemelie Juliane, 1637-1706

Text from "The Lutheran Hymnal," St. Louis: Concordia Publishing House, 1941

It's sad ...

when old buildings reach such a state of disrepair that the only option left is demolition. So many memories were made in this building, an old family grocery store, and now it's this: 

I know a building is not the same as a human, but really, we're all getting to this point: Aching joints and sagging flesh on a octogenarian is similar to peeling paint and broken floors in a home.

And it's not like anything else will be built to replace in in this particular small town ... once it's gone, it will be another empty lot in a rapidly declining village. 

•••

Why such a dark topic? I guess it's because I'm reminded most on cloudy and dank days, like today, of the bitterness of life. Oh, don't misunderstand - I love living and I'd definitely prefer it to the alternative, but the thing is, there is no real alternative. We're all dying, a little bit, every day. I can feel it, actually. Nothing major, but the slight aches that persist which wouldn't have bothered me a bit two years ago, they remind me that I'm getting older, not younger, and it's all one way from here.

Thursday Thoughts

If you're talking on the phone in the bathroom (and, gross, by the way), don't admit it to the person with whom you're conversing. 

Heaven must smell like coffee. And I could use a cup of heaven right about now.

People who are really bad at their jobs are often really good at keeping them.

Myriad Pro is the most versatile font — it's the condensed cream of mushroom soup of typefaces.

Those books I checked out from the library are calling my name ... Just wait, babies. The weekend's right around the corner.

Violet ... Violet ... Violet

So that's my work calling. Probably should get on that ... 

Seek truth and report it

This is me. Reporting.

I have a lot of ideas when it comes to reporting. And granted, I’m still relatively new to this field, but then again, I’ve been doing it for four years, so maybe I do know something by now.

First: A story isn’t about me, the reporter. It’s about the person/people/issue(s). People’s lives are affected by what I write and therefore, it’s not an ego trip for me. Responsibly, ethically, it just can’t be.

Second: So therefore, when I interview someone, I try to have them talk as much as possible. Sometimes it’s a conversation, but ideally, I like to just listen, write and then clarify any points later.

Third: Though I do write “hard news” – school board proceedings, accident and crime reports, etc. – most of the time I’m writing features. It’s generally “happy” news, sometimes tragic, but usually fairly positive. I try to make that clear to whomever I’m interviewing – that I’m not a big, bad reporter out to get them. And as much as I can, I establish common ground with the interviewee right away. Maybe we grew up in the same area or have similar interests – whatever the case, the more human I seem, the more comfortable they are with me.

 Fourth: All that said, I can’t get too buddy-buddy with sources. That can lead down a bad road, a road of favors and obligations. So while I’m friendly with people I interview, I’m not their friend.

Fifth: This, I wish I would have known earlier in my career, but I know it now. That is, where I go for stories and who I talk to for stories, are all people, places and events the public might want to attend/converse with, but for a number of reasons, can’t. Not everyone can make a 7 p.m. school board meeting, or visit with a business owner in the  middle of the day. So that’s where I come in. I can be to those events, because it’s my job to be the public’s liaison to the newsmakers.

 And sixth: My job is really and truly important, and I don’t take it lightly. It’s not an easy thing to take a huge wad of information, condense it and break it down into something understandable. It’s not easy to parse through myriad opinions, usually differing, to find some clarity.  It’s not easy to come up with clever, informative or interesting leads to stories. Heck, sometimes it’s not even easy to drag myself out of the house to work. But I do it and when I do it right, it’s worth it.

Of course, then I always wonder if I wrote it the right way, made it clear enough, made it interesting enough. I pray, once a story is printed, that people get it and don’t think “What an uninspired hack. Take away her pen and notebook.”

I guess that doubt comes with the job. And as long as it keeps me motivated, it can’t be a bad thing. 

River

I'm originally from the flat lands of Nebraska. And though this state supposedly has the most miles of river in the nation, I didn't have much exposure to it as a child. 

Ergo, I love the fact that I now live about half a mile from the Elkhorn River. It's not the mightiest river in the world, nor is it particularly beautiful. But it's here and it speaks to me. I envision many family picnics, quiet meditations and long walks along this river. 

Also, many more photos.

In the spirit of brevity ...

If my obituary had to be written in six words, this is what it would be:

Mildly neurotic, mostly nice, loved abundantly.

Or, how about this for my statement of faith?

Keep me faithful, Lord, to Thee.

I like the rest of these; they say more than paragraphs often do. 

To Jim:

With you, life is a party. 

Wished on a star, you came.

Two hearts, two lives, one love.

Mornings are easier with you here.

Waking up next to you: priceless.

Spellbound, I wonder at your love.

On books:

Too many books, too little time.

On feline friends:

Life is better with a cat.

House becomes home with furry friend.

On The Boy:

Accepted it, cried, I moved on.

On love and life:

Love isn't love until given away. 

Held captive by possibilities, I stay. 

On prospective motherhood: 

Little one, you are a miracle.

bones

Every bone in my body hurts and I am young. How much more must the bones, the limbs, of buildings, older than me and weather-worn, ache? I saw an abandoned business yesterday, its facade stripped to the insulation. Dark, dark streaks of mold and rot. Sad. Will my home be like that on the inside someday?

Later, I touched the walls in my home, thanking her for sheltering me so well. How many lovers have loved within her embrace? How many children have stained her walls with sticky fingers? Has anyone died here?

When our house creaks at night, settling into the earth which supports her, she whispers to me: Beloved, rest in me and be well. 

It is well with my soul in this home, in this small place tucked away into an obscure corner of a fly-over state in the middle of these sometimes-great United States. The world is raging and changing and  I can only watch. Who would care what a very average woman from Nebraska thinks? 

But in my haven, I matter.

She needs me to keep her beautiful, to delay the ravages of time and age on her frame. She is no longer young; those days passed long before I was born. Parts of her are sagging and others are faded. A lady never tells her age, and so I don't know how old she truly is, but I'm guessing it's closer to 100 years than it is to 80. But despite the cracking and chipping, there's no denying she's a beauty, unique in every way. We go about our business inside her walls, mindless at times that she'll be here long after we've left. And still she stands, stalwart, on the rolling green hills that have been her home for a century. 

A house is just a house, you say, and perhaps that's true. But this home must love me. I couldn't be so happy in any other place. 

My bones ache for a while and then the pain fades. 

It's not so for her. 

Unleashing the inner Martha

There is a part of me that really, really likes domestic stuff. You know, cooking nutritious meals and decorating the house for the holidays. 

For a long time, I ignored my inner domestic diva. I had bigger fish to fry. Well, not actually fish because that would be domestic. You know, other things to do. 

But now I've embraced her. I can be more than one thing — I can be a professional woman and still like to color-coordinate my dinner table for holidays: 

I can be taken seriously and still like Willow Tree angels;  

and I can be an NPR-listening, Margaret Atwood-reading, gender communications-studying woman, but still make delicious desserts like cherry-almond torte.

In short, I'm not putting myself in a box. Unless it's a pretty box. In which case, I might consider it.

Photo post

Rosie is the latest addition to our family. Step two to becoming a crazy cat lady: Check.

My husband is a wonderful man who will pose for photos like this. We've been married for nearly two years. 

We live in a really beautiful part of the state. Occasionally, I'll take to the back roads to get some photographs. Those back roads, they don't disappoint.

OK — another photo of Rosie. I guess she's cute enough to merit two. 

Oh. And lest I forget our "first born" — Winston — here he is. See how happy he is that I saved him for the end. 

Working for the (fill-in-the-blank)

On the way to work this morning, I heard a teaser on the radio which did what it's supposed to do: It piqued my interest. 

Why do we work? Tess Viglund of Marketplace Money queried. Of course we work for money, but why else? 

Why indeed? I think to myself, now at work, which is a weekly newspaper in rural America, housed in a dilapidated old building on Main Street. 

I won't lie — I need that paycheck every two weeks. While it's not excessive, it's nothing to sneeze at, either. 

But it is more than the paycheck, that much is true. I feel that my contribution to the newspaper means something. Though we don't have an unlimited budget to create a stunning and prize-winning publication, we produce a solid newspaper every week. It includes news people need to know — obituaries and upcoming farming clinics, 4-H results and engagement announcements. If we didn't do what we do, a vital part of our community would be lost. 

So there is a distinct purpose to my job. Each week, I breathe a sigh of satisfaction when I hold the finished product in my hands. But only a second, because then it's time to start on next week's paper. 

I'm always about a week ahead of the rest of the world.

And there is the camaraderie, too. I'd miss that if I didn't work here. Though I'm the youngest employee by far, I've learned that age isn't a barrier to friendship. I glean recipes and household tips from my older co-workers and we laugh together often. Sometimes we don't see eye-to-eye, which is normal, particularly when I try something new with photos or design. 

"Oh," they say, "we'll hear all about that at coffee later this week."

That's the other thing — they bring me all the good gossip from around town. I'm not nearly so well-informed as they are, but thankfully, they're always willing to share!

Perhaps I should tell my boss to hold the check next week. After all, it seems I get enough out of working  — who needs to get paid?

Ha. I never knew this was going to be a funny blog.

Unhappy Days

This spring is so much better than last year's festival of poo.

I've got about a million reasons why this is true, but the main reason is this:

I'm not working at THAT PLACE anymore.

To be discreet, I won't use actual names. Though they likely have forgotten I ever worked there. I was just a short little blip on their radar (although, on their staff list online, I'm still listed as a reporter). 

•••

Recently, I ran into a former editor and our conversation went something like this:

"I heard about you had a less than pleasant experience with a member of my gender down in Oklahoma," he said. 

I winced, then nodded. 

"Honestly, I haven't thought about it for a while, but it was pretty bad," I said.

"It just makes me sick to think about," he continued. "Here you were, just out of college and excited for your first job and then you run into that. I'd love to give that guy a piece of my mind."

And that basically sums up the six months I worked in THAT PLACE.

•••

I had forgotten how truly unhappy I was during our time in Oklahoma. 

I attribute that to self-preservation: If I had dwelled on it, I couldn't have gotten past it. 

But it's been almost a year since I packed up my desk at THAT PLACE, and while it's an undeniably crappy period of my life, I'd like to think I'm moving on.

•••

Yet it still bothers me. Primarily, why didn't I get out sooner? Jim tells me I came home crying most days. I remember one night quite vividly — I couldn't pull myself up from the floor where I had crumpled in a fit of weeping. Honestly, I don't know how I got out of bed in the mornings. Overly dramatic? Maybe ... but there's no denying I was severely depressed. 

But I still kept working there. No matter how bad it got, I felt I owed it to the newspaper to continue to work hard and produce good stories. Which I did — I am, if nothing else, good at my job. 

In the end, though, it wasn't worth it. Employee loyalty is well and good, but only when it's given to a company which will reciprocate it. Instead, when I spoke out against the harassment I'd experienced while employed there, nothing changed.

I would like to think my experience, shared with the paper's publisher, would have inspired change. Instead, I worry about the other young women who still work there. What fresh hell do they go through every day?

••• 

Life's much better now. I'm gainfully employed at a newspaper which, if smaller and less prestigious, at least values its employees. At least I only spent six months working at THAT PLACE. Life's too short to spend it miserable and harassed.

One Way

I have a confession to make: I love our local cemetery. 

Maybe part of enjoying life is realizing its inevitable conclusion. I'm aware that my body is daily aging and wearing down, and while it's strong and young now, it won't always be. And while I'm not easy thinking about death, I accept it. 

Perhaps my Lutheran heritage helps with that acceptance. Many of our hymns deal with death and the fleeting nature of life. We have hope for something better, life eternal, but we know what precedes it and we don't flinch away from that stark reality. 

Ergo, I like the cemetery. It's peaceful. I don't know anyone buried there; I'm a recent transplant to the area, but I like to think they wouldn't mind my presence among their headstones and dust.  

And the view? Outstanding. I wouldn't mind being buried on that hill ... If it's morbid to poke around an old cemetery, I'll accept the stigma gratefully. 

Because when I'm there, I am acutely aware that I am alive. My lungs expand and contract with oxygen and my heart beats and fills my veins with blood all the time and I forget it happens. It's miraculous, this business of living, and so improbable. There are, at any given time, a dozen things that could cease my life: Germs and sharp, pointy objects, unbalanced people, falling pianos. We're fragile and so very weak; our survival should be impossible.

Twenty-three years I've been alive. I don't know how many more there will be. But I do know this: They will be vibrant and full. Regardless of what I'm doing, they will be memorable. 

Because — why not? We're all going one way. 

We may as well enjoy the ride.