Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Christmas for Deaux
I thought that I would be noble this year and take on the Christmas shifts so that my co-workers could me with their families here in PA. Oh who am I kidding?! I'm the newest, the pee-on, the low gal on the totem-pole and I did not have a choice in the matter.
That's the shit thing about the newspaper industry — the damn thing keeps on grinding.
There was potential for big headliney Christmas tragedies, but thankfully, my only writing was about natural death - read, obit patrol.
Nothing like keying in death notices to make you feel all warm and fuzzy for the holiday. If anything, the obits reminded me to call my grandparents, so I had that going for me.
In between shifts, I managed to have one of my best Christmases in memory.
It was just Quack and I, and we really made the most out of it. We grilled steaks (sans coats, people!) and cracked a bottle of wine. We ate by candlelight and then exchanged cozy and practical gifts (luggage and cookbooks) near our tree.
The tree, which is a actually a timeline of Quack's youth, is adorned with various photos of a little toothless Quackito and colored macaroni and Popsicle sticks glued into a wreath-like piles.
I came home on Christmas Eve and had a special surprise for the Quackster. In a last minute Christmas miracle I found Leinenkugels (one of the Mid-West's best comfort beers) at a nearby take-out joint.
"I have a special gift for you," I say teasingly.
"I do to," he says with a sly-fox smile.
Me: "Oh."
Q: "Give me you hand."
Me: Gulp.
From his shirt pocket the man pulls a perfectly shaped band….. SWEAT BAND THAT IS!
That effer.
Later in the night, after opening gifts, I curled up on the couch and he played with the iPod I got him. He was bustin' moves a la Tom Cruise in Risky Business (complete with boxers and white T-shirt) all around the apartment. Clearly this last minute gift (bought X-mas Eve, eve with tip cash from the coffee shop) was the money shot.
The night settled down into some good old fashioned anti-humping. I finished up the baby booties I've learned to knit, now that my friends are in the baby-making business, and Quack cracked open the book I got him.
We go home next week for the full X-mas blitz, which I'm looking forward to, but now I know what Mariah Carey was squawking about when she sang, "All I Want For Christmas Is You."
I thought that I would be noble this year and take on the Christmas shifts so that my co-workers could me with their families here in PA. Oh who am I kidding?! I'm the newest, the pee-on, the low gal on the totem-pole and I did not have a choice in the matter.
That's the shit thing about the newspaper industry — the damn thing keeps on grinding.
There was potential for big headliney Christmas tragedies, but thankfully, my only writing was about natural death - read, obit patrol.
Nothing like keying in death notices to make you feel all warm and fuzzy for the holiday. If anything, the obits reminded me to call my grandparents, so I had that going for me.
In between shifts, I managed to have one of my best Christmases in memory.
It was just Quack and I, and we really made the most out of it. We grilled steaks (sans coats, people!) and cracked a bottle of wine. We ate by candlelight and then exchanged cozy and practical gifts (luggage and cookbooks) near our tree.
The tree, which is a actually a timeline of Quack's youth, is adorned with various photos of a little toothless Quackito and colored macaroni and Popsicle sticks glued into a wreath-like piles.
I came home on Christmas Eve and had a special surprise for the Quackster. In a last minute Christmas miracle I found Leinenkugels (one of the Mid-West's best comfort beers) at a nearby take-out joint.
"I have a special gift for you," I say teasingly.
"I do to," he says with a sly-fox smile.
Me: "Oh."
Q: "Give me you hand."
Me: Gulp.
From his shirt pocket the man pulls a perfectly shaped band….. SWEAT BAND THAT IS!
That effer.
Later in the night, after opening gifts, I curled up on the couch and he played with the iPod I got him. He was bustin' moves a la Tom Cruise in Risky Business (complete with boxers and white T-shirt) all around the apartment. Clearly this last minute gift (bought X-mas Eve, eve with tip cash from the coffee shop) was the money shot.
The night settled down into some good old fashioned anti-humping. I finished up the baby booties I've learned to knit, now that my friends are in the baby-making business, and Quack cracked open the book I got him.
We go home next week for the full X-mas blitz, which I'm looking forward to, but now I know what Mariah Carey was squawking about when she sang, "All I Want For Christmas Is You."
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Friday, December 15, 2006
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
I had the awesome opportunity to go to a conference for journos last weekend which discussed how to report on traumatic events.
The editor of the Oklahoma paper that covered the Ok. City bombings gave a great talk (he now lectures for the Dart Center) and the woman who was the superintendent during the Columbine High School shootings also spoke.
But the key topic at hand was the Amish shootings that took place in PA a couple of months ago. Two couples from the Nickle Mines Amish Community were there as representatives and messengers.Two of them were the grandparents of Naomi Rose, one of the victims.
Anyhow, they gave the media people at the conference a critique of how they thought the tragedy was handled. For the most part, they were gracious, but they did say, "the saturation of the community by the press was an excessive, disturbing display of crass capitalism."
Particularly in the covering of the funerals.
Their Stories:
Now that the spot news folks have moved on, they said people are knocking on their doors looking for book deals.
"Now, they are weary," said Naomi, her granddaughter's name-sake. "They (the parents) don't want interviews with people who want to write articles or books. It is time to move on. Now is the time to let the families alone," she said in an accent that sounded like a homemade quilt.
As you can imagine, most of the discussion was heartbreaking, but I was surprised at the humor they delivered as well.
They told a story of a journalist who was dead set on going into one of the funerals. "She wore a pink dress," Naomi said with a smirk, and they all laughed under their wiry beards and soft bonnets.
One of the Amish men there, Levi, said he was running his horse and buggy at about 15 mph and one of the photographers, in an attempt to get a smashing shot, got in his way. "I thought to myself, 'they don't want to move, then pieces are gonna fly.'"
He chuckled at himself so much after that line!
My Observations:
I've always said that my "super power" of choice would be to take a picture in my mind, the then pull the print out of my ear.
On Saturday, this power would've have won me a Pulitzer.
The caterer for the event was pretty fancy. The desserts were more sculptures than treats.
Naomi chose the most incredible dessert - a frozen peach, filled with chocolate and cream, served in a nest of ice cream and topped with additionally decorative cream and chocolate. We're talking Willie Wonka style here people.
Nosey as I am, I watched her choose the dessert. Her eyes lit up in a strange, almost lustful way, and she quickly grabbed the crystal plate away from the modest looking apple pie slices.
She sat at her table and with a look of complete astonishment, dove into the frozen delight. For about two minutes she descended on this thing, licking the chocolate off of her fingers, paying no mind to the dollop of whipped cream on her upper lip, taking nibbles off of the frozen peach - totally in a trance.
And then, at about the third minute of the experience... she stopped. As if a veil had been pulled across her face, she regained her composure and pushed the dessert away.
She dabbed her mouth with the napkin, smoothed her skirt and exhaled fully.
In the end, she probably took three or four bites, but it seemed to me they might have been the most charged bites of her life.
I'll think about her appreciation for the experience next time I have a decadent dessert. I'll also think of her whenever I need to compose myself and assert some more grace.
The editor of the Oklahoma paper that covered the Ok. City bombings gave a great talk (he now lectures for the Dart Center) and the woman who was the superintendent during the Columbine High School shootings also spoke.
But the key topic at hand was the Amish shootings that took place in PA a couple of months ago. Two couples from the Nickle Mines Amish Community were there as representatives and messengers.Two of them were the grandparents of Naomi Rose, one of the victims.
Anyhow, they gave the media people at the conference a critique of how they thought the tragedy was handled. For the most part, they were gracious, but they did say, "the saturation of the community by the press was an excessive, disturbing display of crass capitalism."
Particularly in the covering of the funerals.
Their Stories:
Now that the spot news folks have moved on, they said people are knocking on their doors looking for book deals.
"Now, they are weary," said Naomi, her granddaughter's name-sake. "They (the parents) don't want interviews with people who want to write articles or books. It is time to move on. Now is the time to let the families alone," she said in an accent that sounded like a homemade quilt.
As you can imagine, most of the discussion was heartbreaking, but I was surprised at the humor they delivered as well.
They told a story of a journalist who was dead set on going into one of the funerals. "She wore a pink dress," Naomi said with a smirk, and they all laughed under their wiry beards and soft bonnets.
One of the Amish men there, Levi, said he was running his horse and buggy at about 15 mph and one of the photographers, in an attempt to get a smashing shot, got in his way. "I thought to myself, 'they don't want to move, then pieces are gonna fly.'"
He chuckled at himself so much after that line!
My Observations:
I've always said that my "super power" of choice would be to take a picture in my mind, the then pull the print out of my ear.
On Saturday, this power would've have won me a Pulitzer.
The caterer for the event was pretty fancy. The desserts were more sculptures than treats.
Naomi chose the most incredible dessert - a frozen peach, filled with chocolate and cream, served in a nest of ice cream and topped with additionally decorative cream and chocolate. We're talking Willie Wonka style here people.
Nosey as I am, I watched her choose the dessert. Her eyes lit up in a strange, almost lustful way, and she quickly grabbed the crystal plate away from the modest looking apple pie slices.
She sat at her table and with a look of complete astonishment, dove into the frozen delight. For about two minutes she descended on this thing, licking the chocolate off of her fingers, paying no mind to the dollop of whipped cream on her upper lip, taking nibbles off of the frozen peach - totally in a trance.
And then, at about the third minute of the experience... she stopped. As if a veil had been pulled across her face, she regained her composure and pushed the dessert away.
She dabbed her mouth with the napkin, smoothed her skirt and exhaled fully.
In the end, she probably took three or four bites, but it seemed to me they might have been the most charged bites of her life.
I'll think about her appreciation for the experience next time I have a decadent dessert. I'll also think of her whenever I need to compose myself and assert some more grace.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Book Mingling
For one of my favorite non-trad couples around, their "big day" came when they mingled their books. You know, they squished all their hard and paper backs together in alphabetical order. In fact, I think they may have already been married (an event they informed their family about via post card) but that's a different post.
Anyway, this weekend Quack and I mingled or books - "Rich Dad, Poor Dad" all snuggley with "Lies My Teacher Told Me." Looks strange, feels good.
Going through the books that were once boxed (the folks brought the shelves) I uncovered years of journals, dating back to my early high school years. Man! I used to be a really shitty poet! Not that I'm a good poet now, I just have the good sense not to write poetry anymore.
These journals...
All I ever thought about in high school was boys! Even the little spell of song writing was just a product of my crush on Bob Dylan (don't think about this one too hard, yuck) and the Beatles.
I'd like to take this opportunity to thank all of my gal-pals who put up with my starry-eyed shit.
One of these "boys" was/is Quack. It is so, SO, strange to see the drama of us unfold in my infant handwriting. At that point in my life I was actually trying to re-shape my handwriting so that my "t's" looked, well, exactly how this font types it, with that little curve at the bottom. I was successful at this, but "4's", which I wanted to look like this (4) still have a square and open top.
Point is, I was really trying to make things happen in my life at this time... and it shows in so many different ways.
Other characters enter the pages (Duffy, Hube, the Piano Man, Manimal and the Laundry Guy) - only the closest of the close will be able to decode these names by the by - but the Quackster is the main character.
Here's the thing. I don't know if I put them on the shelf like I always have, or to box them up where he might not feel invited to read.
I don't mind if he does, in fact, there are some things that I think he would love to revisit, it's just that he might not like everything he reads.
Readers...(including Quack, I guess) what do you think?
Does mingling your books mean you need to mingle your journals as well.
WOW! This post is too SJP in SITC for me.... sorry 'bout that.
For one of my favorite non-trad couples around, their "big day" came when they mingled their books. You know, they squished all their hard and paper backs together in alphabetical order. In fact, I think they may have already been married (an event they informed their family about via post card) but that's a different post.
Anyway, this weekend Quack and I mingled or books - "Rich Dad, Poor Dad" all snuggley with "Lies My Teacher Told Me." Looks strange, feels good.
Going through the books that were once boxed (the folks brought the shelves) I uncovered years of journals, dating back to my early high school years. Man! I used to be a really shitty poet! Not that I'm a good poet now, I just have the good sense not to write poetry anymore.
These journals...
All I ever thought about in high school was boys! Even the little spell of song writing was just a product of my crush on Bob Dylan (don't think about this one too hard, yuck) and the Beatles.
I'd like to take this opportunity to thank all of my gal-pals who put up with my starry-eyed shit.
One of these "boys" was/is Quack. It is so, SO, strange to see the drama of us unfold in my infant handwriting. At that point in my life I was actually trying to re-shape my handwriting so that my "t's" looked, well, exactly how this font types it, with that little curve at the bottom. I was successful at this, but "4's", which I wanted to look like this (4) still have a square and open top.
Point is, I was really trying to make things happen in my life at this time... and it shows in so many different ways.
Other characters enter the pages (Duffy, Hube, the Piano Man, Manimal and the Laundry Guy) - only the closest of the close will be able to decode these names by the by - but the Quackster is the main character.
Here's the thing. I don't know if I put them on the shelf like I always have, or to box them up where he might not feel invited to read.
I don't mind if he does, in fact, there are some things that I think he would love to revisit, it's just that he might not like everything he reads.
Readers...(including Quack, I guess) what do you think?
Does mingling your books mean you need to mingle your journals as well.
WOW! This post is too SJP in SITC for me.... sorry 'bout that.
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