I decided that I would finish edits to my project from November by the first of July. I started last week, opening the document and starting from the beginning, going through and line editing and trying to flesh out some things.
It is so painful.
I hate, hate, hate editing my own work. I don't think I'm particularly good at doing it, and the problem is that I always feel "Ugh, I've already read this, I fucking wrote it, how boring." I think if I could set things away for years, then it would be fine, I could edit well. For example: I have these massive three-ring binders hidden away in the bottom of a box of books at my parents' place that has printed-out copies of a ton of shit I wrote through high school and into my freshman year of college. Now, a decade or more (fuck, I'm old) after I've written all that stuff, I can look back on it and not get bogged down.
This was one of my biggest challenges in school, too, especially in college and grad school. In journalism classes I was always told to read through my stuff before I handed it in, but I never could. Not really. It's just so fucking boring, reading what I just did. I got pretty miserable grades on some stuff--my reporting teacher would dock 5 or 10 points for every little thing, like a comma in the wrong place or misspelled word--but I just could never make a habit of reading my stuff well.
Even in grad school, we were supposed to do lots of drafts and edit ourselves, particularly in this final-semester class on long-length narrative nonfiction. That class killed me. I love writing, and I enjoy editing other people's material, but I'm just too close to my own work to self edit.
I guess this isn't a surprise or anything. We're all too close to ourselves, too close to our decisions and lives and what we create, to accurately judge it. But then again, maybe ignorance is bliss. And maybe I'm an awesome genius who churns out Pulitzer prize winning first drafts and shits gold.
(Kidding. Just don't tell my editor I never read my stuff and don't ever intend to. I think just the concept would give her a conniption.)
Showing posts with label fake sociological musings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fake sociological musings. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Security Check
Friday I'm going to Dallas to cover this giant fund-raiser event for M.D. Anderson Cancer Center. I guess they hold it in Dallas because there's more money for Houston; I'm not sure, but this will be my third year going and it's a chance to get out of the office for a few hours, get a free lunch of "eh" quality (but it's free!), and write a quick and easy web story.
This year the guest at the event is former first lady Laura Bush, so the PR people for M.D. Anderson had to get names of reporters turned in ahead of time so we can be checked out by the Secret Service, I guess. Check-in for media is also scheduled for much earlier--so they can frisk us? Who knows? I'm not really one to complain about it; it is what it is, that's fine, but it got me wondering what would be found if anyone did a background check on me.
It made me wonder if the government has a file on my somewhere because I'm a reporter, or because I have a blog where I say I work for the damn liberal media. I wonder if they know I have several thousand dollars on a credit card that seems like it will never, ever be fucking paid off because I've moved on it several times, lived on it for an internship, bought tires and dental services on it and used it to bridge pay gaps with my furloughed job. I'm not a heroin addict or alcoholic, but I like beer and some wines and tequila. Mixed drinks are usually screwdrivers or whiskey sours. If they looked hard enough, would they find the old websites I made when I was in high school, where I posted these melodramatic short stories I would write? Half my characters had some weird disease or syndrome because I had this set of medical encyclopedia things that I would peruse until I found something to obsessively research and then was compelled to use that research in something. (Yeah, ok, we were all weird kids, let's remember that.)
I don't particularly have anything interesting that people could find, I don't think. No arrests, only one speeding ticket ever (I'm usually able to charm my way out of them). No Swiss accounts, although those won't be secret for very long for a lot of people, so that's a moot point. Well, that and I'm a fucking journalist, so I've got shit money anyway. Anyway. I wrote some passionately-worded opinion columns for my college newspaper, but they were all about vaccinations or keeping religion out of science classes or how there were too many freshman clogging the sidewalks and admissions should be tougher.
In grad school, I took some class--I can't even remember the name or topic anymore--that was taught by a conspiracy-theorist honorary professor who was a big writer in her day (although I'd never heard of her, but I've been known to read stupid shit like Twilight and the original Star Wars books, so my knowledge of authors isn't always tremendous). She would talk about how she knew her phone calls were bugged. I'm not sure how she knew this--she was discombobulated at the best of times, and I earned an A by showing up regularly and giving a presentation about the New York Times (the sole grade in the class). But it makes me wonder if my life is boring, since I have no good dirt to dig up.
But then I realize, fuck, that's generally ok with me. I go to work; that's fine, I generally enjoy my work, it keeps me busy and (barely) keeps a roof over my head. I go spend time alone with the horses. I feed Fenway marshmallows and donuts and caramel corn, because he is strange. I go out with friends and drink, I spend time lazing around napping with the boyfriend on weekends. I blog about stupid shit.
Sometimes I think right now that's all I can handle. I'll muss up my reputation when I've got the money to rectify it.
(And as a complete side note, my internal clock is effed. I stay up way too late, and even getting up late feels too early during the week. I had this theory it was anemia or something, so I started taking an iron supplement, but I dunno, it's not helping. I think what it really comes down to is that I am naturally a night owl, and sometimes I lapse back into that. Hence why I'm here blogging when I should be finished writing stories and going to bed to read for a bit before sleep. I haven't done the story I thought I would. And I will try to get up early to do it, and odds are I'll sleep in. Good thing there's only two weeks until furlough/vacation.)
This year the guest at the event is former first lady Laura Bush, so the PR people for M.D. Anderson had to get names of reporters turned in ahead of time so we can be checked out by the Secret Service, I guess. Check-in for media is also scheduled for much earlier--so they can frisk us? Who knows? I'm not really one to complain about it; it is what it is, that's fine, but it got me wondering what would be found if anyone did a background check on me.
It made me wonder if the government has a file on my somewhere because I'm a reporter, or because I have a blog where I say I work for the damn liberal media. I wonder if they know I have several thousand dollars on a credit card that seems like it will never, ever be fucking paid off because I've moved on it several times, lived on it for an internship, bought tires and dental services on it and used it to bridge pay gaps with my furloughed job. I'm not a heroin addict or alcoholic, but I like beer and some wines and tequila. Mixed drinks are usually screwdrivers or whiskey sours. If they looked hard enough, would they find the old websites I made when I was in high school, where I posted these melodramatic short stories I would write? Half my characters had some weird disease or syndrome because I had this set of medical encyclopedia things that I would peruse until I found something to obsessively research and then was compelled to use that research in something. (Yeah, ok, we were all weird kids, let's remember that.)
I don't particularly have anything interesting that people could find, I don't think. No arrests, only one speeding ticket ever (I'm usually able to charm my way out of them). No Swiss accounts, although those won't be secret for very long for a lot of people, so that's a moot point. Well, that and I'm a fucking journalist, so I've got shit money anyway. Anyway. I wrote some passionately-worded opinion columns for my college newspaper, but they were all about vaccinations or keeping religion out of science classes or how there were too many freshman clogging the sidewalks and admissions should be tougher.
In grad school, I took some class--I can't even remember the name or topic anymore--that was taught by a conspiracy-theorist honorary professor who was a big writer in her day (although I'd never heard of her, but I've been known to read stupid shit like Twilight and the original Star Wars books, so my knowledge of authors isn't always tremendous). She would talk about how she knew her phone calls were bugged. I'm not sure how she knew this--she was discombobulated at the best of times, and I earned an A by showing up regularly and giving a presentation about the New York Times (the sole grade in the class). But it makes me wonder if my life is boring, since I have no good dirt to dig up.
But then I realize, fuck, that's generally ok with me. I go to work; that's fine, I generally enjoy my work, it keeps me busy and (barely) keeps a roof over my head. I go spend time alone with the horses. I feed Fenway marshmallows and donuts and caramel corn, because he is strange. I go out with friends and drink, I spend time lazing around napping with the boyfriend on weekends. I blog about stupid shit.
Sometimes I think right now that's all I can handle. I'll muss up my reputation when I've got the money to rectify it.
(And as a complete side note, my internal clock is effed. I stay up way too late, and even getting up late feels too early during the week. I had this theory it was anemia or something, so I started taking an iron supplement, but I dunno, it's not helping. I think what it really comes down to is that I am naturally a night owl, and sometimes I lapse back into that. Hence why I'm here blogging when I should be finished writing stories and going to bed to read for a bit before sleep. I haven't done the story I thought I would. And I will try to get up early to do it, and odds are I'll sleep in. Good thing there's only two weeks until furlough/vacation.)
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Word
I pass this church on the way out to the barn, which is in Mansfield, and it has a marquee outside that has churchy-kind of inspiring sayings or things to make you think Christian-like thoughts, like "Is your life Christ-centered?" and whatnot.
On Saturday I noticed they had something to the effect of "Hope and faith are a choice. So are fear and depression." Now, I totally get what they're saying--you can choose to look at things in a dismal way, or work to make them better. Fine with that. But irked by their (speaking of choices) use of the word "depression."
Today on the way back from the barn I was feeling awesome about myself--Topper and I took a few turns over a little jump, and we both survived!--and I saw the sign. I pulled over, got the phone number off the sign, called and left a message asking them to change the word to "despair" since "depression" is a chemical imbalance in the brain and cannot be wished or prayed or chosen away, even if you're a Scientologist. I left my phone number, too, in case they want to call back and debate medical terminology with me. I'm no nurse, I'm not doctor, but I'm a journalist and it's my job to be picky about words.
I joked to Dan that someone had to defend the depressed because they were too depressed to do it themselves. I dunno if he thought it was funny.
On Saturday I noticed they had something to the effect of "Hope and faith are a choice. So are fear and depression." Now, I totally get what they're saying--you can choose to look at things in a dismal way, or work to make them better. Fine with that. But irked by their (speaking of choices) use of the word "depression."
Today on the way back from the barn I was feeling awesome about myself--Topper and I took a few turns over a little jump, and we both survived!--and I saw the sign. I pulled over, got the phone number off the sign, called and left a message asking them to change the word to "despair" since "depression" is a chemical imbalance in the brain and cannot be wished or prayed or chosen away, even if you're a Scientologist. I left my phone number, too, in case they want to call back and debate medical terminology with me. I'm no nurse, I'm not doctor, but I'm a journalist and it's my job to be picky about words.
I joked to Dan that someone had to defend the depressed because they were too depressed to do it themselves. I dunno if he thought it was funny.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Stray
This morning I had an interview out in Arlington, and I was driving along I-30 on my way back when I saw this large, white dog trotting alongisde the highway, limping just slightly, but going steadily with his tongue lolling out one side of his mouth.
The dog was on the left side of the freeway, in this sort of grassy median that turned to a really wide asphalt shoulder a few miles up. I looked at the dog as I went past at 70 miles per hour, and I briefly considered pulling my car over the trying to pick him up. Where was he going to go? How was he going to cross three lanes of traffic to get off the freeway? I didn't notice a collar, but I was going pretty fast. Maybe he belonged to someone. Maybe he didn't. Maybe I should have done something.
I have really, really intense guilt when it comes to stray dogs, and especially dogs who seem in a situation where no one is going to help them and they're going to get killed by being hit by a car. Cats are something else--I think of cats as more able to take care of themselves, and when I find a small stray kitten (like the little one on the exit ramp near University, or the one that lived in the bush near Dan's apartment), I can easily pull over, catch it and put it in my cat to take it to a shelter.
It's not the same with dogs. I have a small two-door, and a dog would be in awfully close quarters with me while I'm driving. What if it starts pacing around or climbing over seats? And what if while I'm trying to entice the dog over it turns out to be a mean dog that tries to attack me?
But what if it's a nice, gentle, hungry, dehydrated dog that needs help and I just drove past?
I thought about that dog the whole rest of the drive back. Obviously, I'm still thinking about him. I'm wondering if someone picked him up. Maybe they took him home. (I certainly couldn't bring home a dog, with two roommates, two cats and an apartment. It's just not sane.) Maybe he crossed the highway--at least he's got his bright color going for him--and headed off to a subdivision.
When I drive by and don't stop, it makes it awfully hard for me to believe I'm a good person.
The dog was on the left side of the freeway, in this sort of grassy median that turned to a really wide asphalt shoulder a few miles up. I looked at the dog as I went past at 70 miles per hour, and I briefly considered pulling my car over the trying to pick him up. Where was he going to go? How was he going to cross three lanes of traffic to get off the freeway? I didn't notice a collar, but I was going pretty fast. Maybe he belonged to someone. Maybe he didn't. Maybe I should have done something.
I have really, really intense guilt when it comes to stray dogs, and especially dogs who seem in a situation where no one is going to help them and they're going to get killed by being hit by a car. Cats are something else--I think of cats as more able to take care of themselves, and when I find a small stray kitten (like the little one on the exit ramp near University, or the one that lived in the bush near Dan's apartment), I can easily pull over, catch it and put it in my cat to take it to a shelter.
It's not the same with dogs. I have a small two-door, and a dog would be in awfully close quarters with me while I'm driving. What if it starts pacing around or climbing over seats? And what if while I'm trying to entice the dog over it turns out to be a mean dog that tries to attack me?
But what if it's a nice, gentle, hungry, dehydrated dog that needs help and I just drove past?
I thought about that dog the whole rest of the drive back. Obviously, I'm still thinking about him. I'm wondering if someone picked him up. Maybe they took him home. (I certainly couldn't bring home a dog, with two roommates, two cats and an apartment. It's just not sane.) Maybe he crossed the highway--at least he's got his bright color going for him--and headed off to a subdivision.
When I drive by and don't stop, it makes it awfully hard for me to believe I'm a good person.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Strangers
I'm taking off Friday, Dec. 5, so my sister and I can drive down to San Antonio to see all the grandparents--my dad's mother and father, and then my mom's father, who lives in New Braunfels. Dan is working on Thanksgiving and Julie is going to Louisiana with her best friend, so I think I'm spending Thanksgiving with Andrew, drinking beer and eating tacos from some little greasy place where everyone speaks Spanish. My parents live halfway across the country, and it's really only feasible to fly there once a year (hello, long Christmas vacation).
It's all got to do with family, and I've been pondering it a lot for the past two weeks or so. It came up because of this trip down south, and I've known this for a long time but it's still bizarre: My extended family is made up of complete strangers.
I guess it's been like this because my dad was being reassigned every two or three years, and so we were moving all over the place. The grandparents would visit once a year, but I rarely saw the aunts and uncles and cousins. Right before fifth grade my family got moved to San Antonio, and then we were surrounded by all the extended family, and we saw them every other month or so, but it was still weird. I hadn't grown up around these people, I didn't really know then, and I was in that awkward pre-teen/early teenage stage when I didn't really want to be around my family.
After seventh grade, my family moved again and we were back to only seeing the extended family occasionally. My freshman year at TCU I took a train down to San Antonio to spend Thanksgiving with my grandparents, and from what I remember it was all slightly awkward. I love my grandparents--they're lovely, loving people, and my grandmother's family moved to Mexico during the Great Depression and she worked as a nurse and has the cutest accent, and my grandfather got himself out of desperate poverty by joining the military and becoming a highly-respected Air Force officer. But they're still strange to me.
My mom's father is even more of a mystery, and I never really got know my grandmother well because she died when I was in seventh grade. Most of what I know about them I've heard from stories from my mother, and they were sometimes stories I'd eavesdropped on--stories tinted with the issues of the past. My grandfather was a Protestant minister, and never had much money and so could rarely afford to travel to see us.
I'm looking forward to the trip, especially since I am going with my sister. It'll be good. We'll miss out on the extended family, which is a whole other level of strangeness--I know more about celebraties than I know about them--but we'll get to see those people who have seen the most and were the ones with whom my immediate family starts. They're also the people with a good perspective, having seen a lot in life, and it should be an enlightening weekend.
That, and it's a Friday off. What's not to love?
It's all got to do with family, and I've been pondering it a lot for the past two weeks or so. It came up because of this trip down south, and I've known this for a long time but it's still bizarre: My extended family is made up of complete strangers.
I guess it's been like this because my dad was being reassigned every two or three years, and so we were moving all over the place. The grandparents would visit once a year, but I rarely saw the aunts and uncles and cousins. Right before fifth grade my family got moved to San Antonio, and then we were surrounded by all the extended family, and we saw them every other month or so, but it was still weird. I hadn't grown up around these people, I didn't really know then, and I was in that awkward pre-teen/early teenage stage when I didn't really want to be around my family.
After seventh grade, my family moved again and we were back to only seeing the extended family occasionally. My freshman year at TCU I took a train down to San Antonio to spend Thanksgiving with my grandparents, and from what I remember it was all slightly awkward. I love my grandparents--they're lovely, loving people, and my grandmother's family moved to Mexico during the Great Depression and she worked as a nurse and has the cutest accent, and my grandfather got himself out of desperate poverty by joining the military and becoming a highly-respected Air Force officer. But they're still strange to me.
My mom's father is even more of a mystery, and I never really got know my grandmother well because she died when I was in seventh grade. Most of what I know about them I've heard from stories from my mother, and they were sometimes stories I'd eavesdropped on--stories tinted with the issues of the past. My grandfather was a Protestant minister, and never had much money and so could rarely afford to travel to see us.
I'm looking forward to the trip, especially since I am going with my sister. It'll be good. We'll miss out on the extended family, which is a whole other level of strangeness--I know more about celebraties than I know about them--but we'll get to see those people who have seen the most and were the ones with whom my immediate family starts. They're also the people with a good perspective, having seen a lot in life, and it should be an enlightening weekend.
That, and it's a Friday off. What's not to love?
Sunday, November 09, 2008
Facebook/Election
I like to think Jezebel stole my blog post idea, but I get the idea I'm not the only one who came up with this.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
The Status
Ok, so my sister is the first one who mentioned this. Last night, after the election, she was telling me about all the people she's friends with on Facebook who have these really negative status reports posted about how Obama is a socialist (my sister got offended because they weren't using the right definition of socialism). She said she thinks a lot less of some people because of their Facebook statuses.
I noticed it again today, when I saw a bunch of comments on Jezebel about women de-friending people on Facebook because of their statuses. Leslie even posted a status saying she's disappointed to find out (via Facebook) what some people really believe.
Personally, I only have an odd one or two friends on Facebook who have posted anti-Obama statuses. Some have graciously avoided it (kudos to them), but most of my friends have political persuasions that reflect mine, so it's generally not an issue. I think a lot of it is an issue for people who A) like my sister, friend or accept friend invitations from anyone they ever meet and B) who are more liberal than most of their families and friends, usually due to culture/geographical things.
Maybe everyone on Facebook with de-friend everyone whose political statuses disagree with their own views. Maybe people on Facebook now will only accept friend invitations from people who are legitimate friends (instead of everyone you ever meet once) or who have views more closely in line with their own.
Probably not.
But wouldn't it be funny if this election changed Facebook forever? I love me some Facebook theories.
The following are comments I pulled off Jezebel, because they're funny/sad/awesome/really amusing:
"Also, reading all my friends' Facebook statuses keeps making me cry, too. It's unbelievable how many of them supported Obama and amazing how it is affecting so many people in such profound ways. "
"Some of my friends' Facebook statuses are making me cry too, but for a different reason - I can't believe people that I used to think were decent and logical have turned into crazy assholes. "
"That sucks. Shockingly, I can only think of 3 or 4 of my hundreds of Facebook friends that were McCain supporters. That makes me happy. But I am in a liberal area, went to school in a liberal city, and am queer. So that might explain that. "
"I live in Middle America (yeah that red strip down the middle) and my Facebook page is oddly silent. heh heh heh. Yesterday I was fighting with self-righteous McCain supports and today I guess they've gone to the ammo store to buy up the guns. "
"I just "de-friended" one of my best friends because he's an unthinking Republican and I cannot having him harshing my mellow right now. I feel sort of bad about it, but I just do not need shit like this in my life: "_____ is a true American because he supports even the lowest of presidents, instead of whining like liberals". God, just STFU, go crawl into a hole and build a goddamn shrine to Sarah Palin's loveliness, fuck twit. "
'MY COUSIN is pulling that shit right now. He congratulated Obama, and when someone commented on his status, he mentioned that it would be nice if the left had been as "magnanimous" about the election results in 2000 and 2004. I just told Facebook to not show me stories of his on my news feed."
I noticed it again today, when I saw a bunch of comments on Jezebel about women de-friending people on Facebook because of their statuses. Leslie even posted a status saying she's disappointed to find out (via Facebook) what some people really believe.
Personally, I only have an odd one or two friends on Facebook who have posted anti-Obama statuses. Some have graciously avoided it (kudos to them), but most of my friends have political persuasions that reflect mine, so it's generally not an issue. I think a lot of it is an issue for people who A) like my sister, friend or accept friend invitations from anyone they ever meet and B) who are more liberal than most of their families and friends, usually due to culture/geographical things.
Maybe everyone on Facebook with de-friend everyone whose political statuses disagree with their own views. Maybe people on Facebook now will only accept friend invitations from people who are legitimate friends (instead of everyone you ever meet once) or who have views more closely in line with their own.
Probably not.
But wouldn't it be funny if this election changed Facebook forever? I love me some Facebook theories.
The following are comments I pulled off Jezebel, because they're funny/sad/awesome/really amusing:
"Also, reading all my friends' Facebook statuses keeps making me cry, too. It's unbelievable how many of them supported Obama and amazing how it is affecting so many people in such profound ways. "
"Some of my friends' Facebook statuses are making me cry too, but for a different reason - I can't believe people that I used to think were decent and logical have turned into crazy assholes. "
"That sucks. Shockingly, I can only think of 3 or 4 of my hundreds of Facebook friends that were McCain supporters. That makes me happy. But I am in a liberal area, went to school in a liberal city, and am queer. So that might explain that. "
"I live in Middle America (yeah that red strip down the middle) and my Facebook page is oddly silent. heh heh heh. Yesterday I was fighting with self-righteous McCain supports and today I guess they've gone to the ammo store to buy up the guns. "
"I just "de-friended" one of my best friends because he's an unthinking Republican and I cannot having him harshing my mellow right now. I feel sort of bad about it, but I just do not need shit like this in my life: "_____ is a true American because he supports even the lowest of presidents, instead of whining like liberals". God, just STFU, go crawl into a hole and build a goddamn shrine to Sarah Palin's loveliness, fuck twit. "
'MY COUSIN is pulling that shit right now. He congratulated Obama, and when someone commented on his status, he mentioned that it would be nice if the left had been as "magnanimous" about the election results in 2000 and 2004. I just told Facebook to not show me stories of his on my news feed."
Monday, November 03, 2008
Next, A Dog
Saturday night was the first wedding of any of us out of our scijo class at BU. Some came into the class already married, like Molly and Andrea, and lots of us were dating people, but Liz and Pat were both students in our class who fell in love over science magazine articles and I am crossing my fingers they will now go on to produce a lovely second-generation of scijo dorkiness, hopefully in the form of a cute dog with an appropriately geeky name.
(I'm not ruling out children in the long-term, but seriously--everyone who starts asking married people when they're going to have kids should STOP. Immediately. The married people will have children when they want to have children. However, they should have pets when I want them to have pets. I like cutesy animal photos.)
The wedding was fantastic. Kirk, Karen, Eric, Dan and I shared a cab from the Union Square area out there, and Kate met us there. It was at the Park Chalet Garden Restauarant, and even though it was raining and blowing like a hurricane, it was very pretty and simple inside, with the giant fireplace decorated. All the friends and family stood around the fireplace as a justice of the peace married them, and then there was lots of drinking of the handcrafted beer and partaking of wines and appetizers. Food was good, later on, and the whole thing was simple and fairly casual, with about 120 people in attendance.
It was good to have most of the scijos from our class there. It made me realize how much I miss them all and that it's already been close to two years since we graduated and left for traveling or jobs or internships. These are people who came from various backgrounds but all came together to spend most classes with each other. Doug and Ellen said more than once that we were the most united class they'd ever had, and I think that's still true. Yeah, I'm shitty at keeping up with people, and I may not talk to someone for months at a time. But this weekend it felt as though when we're all in the same place again, there's that easy familiarity that comes with having seen people at their best and worst, all thrown into a new (and yet the same) situation.
There were toasts later on in the evening, and all these friends of Liz and Pat's stood and talked about hearing about them for the first time, meeting the other and hearing that they were going to be married. In the back corner of the bar, us scijos were talking about how they would come into class at the same time (usually just in the nick of time or a minute or two late) with coffee from the same place. We all knew it was a relationship before they admitted it. Perhaps one of us should have stood up and made some sort of speech, but we didn't. That's ok. Liz and Pat knew we were there; that's why we were all invited as a group.
Also, Liz and Pat (probably more Liz, if I had to guess) opted for cupcakes instead of a big traditional cake. I think I had three of them, and they were fantastic. I have also realized that I don't think I took any photos at the wedding except of the cupcakes. I'm a bad friend like that. I did see a professional photographer wandering everywhere, though, and flashing her camera in our faces, so I am hoping for a link to an online album soon.
Overall, it was a successful and wonderful trip to San Francisco. I ate cheap Asian foot, walked until my legs were going to fall off, went tourist-trap and locals-only, saw rocking Halloween costumes, got two friends married, and ate a ton of cupcakes. I even made it to the airport on time the next morning, despite being near drunk, crippled from high heels and confused by a time change.
(I'm not ruling out children in the long-term, but seriously--everyone who starts asking married people when they're going to have kids should STOP. Immediately. The married people will have children when they want to have children. However, they should have pets when I want them to have pets. I like cutesy animal photos.)
The wedding was fantastic. Kirk, Karen, Eric, Dan and I shared a cab from the Union Square area out there, and Kate met us there. It was at the Park Chalet Garden Restauarant, and even though it was raining and blowing like a hurricane, it was very pretty and simple inside, with the giant fireplace decorated. All the friends and family stood around the fireplace as a justice of the peace married them, and then there was lots of drinking of the handcrafted beer and partaking of wines and appetizers. Food was good, later on, and the whole thing was simple and fairly casual, with about 120 people in attendance.
It was good to have most of the scijos from our class there. It made me realize how much I miss them all and that it's already been close to two years since we graduated and left for traveling or jobs or internships. These are people who came from various backgrounds but all came together to spend most classes with each other. Doug and Ellen said more than once that we were the most united class they'd ever had, and I think that's still true. Yeah, I'm shitty at keeping up with people, and I may not talk to someone for months at a time. But this weekend it felt as though when we're all in the same place again, there's that easy familiarity that comes with having seen people at their best and worst, all thrown into a new (and yet the same) situation.
There were toasts later on in the evening, and all these friends of Liz and Pat's stood and talked about hearing about them for the first time, meeting the other and hearing that they were going to be married. In the back corner of the bar, us scijos were talking about how they would come into class at the same time (usually just in the nick of time or a minute or two late) with coffee from the same place. We all knew it was a relationship before they admitted it. Perhaps one of us should have stood up and made some sort of speech, but we didn't. That's ok. Liz and Pat knew we were there; that's why we were all invited as a group.
Also, Liz and Pat (probably more Liz, if I had to guess) opted for cupcakes instead of a big traditional cake. I think I had three of them, and they were fantastic. I have also realized that I don't think I took any photos at the wedding except of the cupcakes. I'm a bad friend like that. I did see a professional photographer wandering everywhere, though, and flashing her camera in our faces, so I am hoping for a link to an online album soon.
Overall, it was a successful and wonderful trip to San Francisco. I ate cheap Asian foot, walked until my legs were going to fall off, went tourist-trap and locals-only, saw rocking Halloween costumes, got two friends married, and ate a ton of cupcakes. I even made it to the airport on time the next morning, despite being near drunk, crippled from high heels and confused by a time change.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
I'm Just Like You
Lots of phone calls and interviews today. Lots of getting to use the phone voice. Also a lot of me trying to assure people I'm just like them.
I do this a lot, especially when a source seems nervous or it's a touchy subject. I want them to relax, feel comfortable--I'm not out to skewer anyone, even those people who probably need to be skewered. (For those, I just want to get the facts and quotes and let them skewer themselves. It's less messy for me.)
This week I'm working on a story about horses being neglected or abandoned or being seized by the county. There was a horse slaughterhouse here in Fort Worth until last year, and so I wasn't sure if there were a bunch of horses who would have been slaughtered and are now lingering and dying slowly in someone's back yard.
It's not exactly a happy topic, as you can probably tell, and when I covered some animal seizures when I was at the daily I got a lot of unhappy people on the phone who didn't want to talk. I had one animal control person hang up on me and then no one answered that phone when I tried calling back repeatedly. People are afraid of sparking a big fight, I guess.
So this week, as I'm getting my sources on the phone, I'm always trying to suavely point out that I'm a horse owner and I'm conflicted about the slaughter houses and that's why I'm trying to find out more. I try to let them know I'm just like a normal person, wanting to talk about it. The only difference is I'll publish this for thousands of people to see, that's all.
I'll do that with almost any topic. I have a bunch of shit I'll pull out. Oh, I went to TCU too, when did you graduate? My father was in the military too, when did you serve before opening this business? Yeah, I lived in New England for a while, aren't the summers here unbearable? It's never disingenuous, because that stuff is all true, and it's just me trying to relate to the source. I can understand why people are gun-shy around the media. I can understand why someone would be hesitant to talk to a reporter. Frankly, I'd be reluctant to talk to the media myself, even if I weren't a reporter. The majority of us use our powers for good, so to speak, but there are those who are lazy or manipulative.
Also, like normal people, I'm looking at the clock and it's 4:05 p.m. and I've got a mofo of a headache coming on and it's gray and breezy and chilly (fall! finally!) and I want to go home. My ME isn't here. Why am I here?
I do this a lot, especially when a source seems nervous or it's a touchy subject. I want them to relax, feel comfortable--I'm not out to skewer anyone, even those people who probably need to be skewered. (For those, I just want to get the facts and quotes and let them skewer themselves. It's less messy for me.)
This week I'm working on a story about horses being neglected or abandoned or being seized by the county. There was a horse slaughterhouse here in Fort Worth until last year, and so I wasn't sure if there were a bunch of horses who would have been slaughtered and are now lingering and dying slowly in someone's back yard.
It's not exactly a happy topic, as you can probably tell, and when I covered some animal seizures when I was at the daily I got a lot of unhappy people on the phone who didn't want to talk. I had one animal control person hang up on me and then no one answered that phone when I tried calling back repeatedly. People are afraid of sparking a big fight, I guess.
So this week, as I'm getting my sources on the phone, I'm always trying to suavely point out that I'm a horse owner and I'm conflicted about the slaughter houses and that's why I'm trying to find out more. I try to let them know I'm just like a normal person, wanting to talk about it. The only difference is I'll publish this for thousands of people to see, that's all.
I'll do that with almost any topic. I have a bunch of shit I'll pull out. Oh, I went to TCU too, when did you graduate? My father was in the military too, when did you serve before opening this business? Yeah, I lived in New England for a while, aren't the summers here unbearable? It's never disingenuous, because that stuff is all true, and it's just me trying to relate to the source. I can understand why people are gun-shy around the media. I can understand why someone would be hesitant to talk to a reporter. Frankly, I'd be reluctant to talk to the media myself, even if I weren't a reporter. The majority of us use our powers for good, so to speak, but there are those who are lazy or manipulative.
Also, like normal people, I'm looking at the clock and it's 4:05 p.m. and I've got a mofo of a headache coming on and it's gray and breezy and chilly (fall! finally!) and I want to go home. My ME isn't here. Why am I here?
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Coffee
When I was in high school, probably my junior year or so, my dad was up getting breakfast at the same time as me and asked me if I wanted a cup of coffee. I said no, I didn't like coffee, and he joked that I'd never live through college unless I drank coffee.
I did live through college, and grad school, and a crappy freelancing job and year and a half of a real job without drinking coffee. Diet Coke and similar products--diet cherry Coke, diet Pepsi, whatever--have always been my best caffeinated friends. They make me happy. And they're so deliciously cold and bubbly, and sometimes feel like you're drinking battery acid. Sodas are for me.
Last winter I got mildly hooked on the cafe au lait (misto, if you happen to go to Starbucks, because they are freaking Nazis). It's one-half or one-third milk, which cuts the bitterness of the coffee, and it's warm and sweet when you throw in a few sweetener. I used to like to stop and get one over the winter when I was done running in the freezing rain or something equally stupid. The cooler weather lately (although it's getting into the low 80s now as I speak, naturally) has made me crave them again.
I decided to start making my own instead of throwing $2.50 at Starbucks every time. I brought milk up to work, and last week mixed my own drinks with the giant communal coffee pot in our break room. Then on Friday I realized I was drinking more caffeine than I really needed, and I worried about going down what Dan refers to as "that slippery slope."
My dad is addicted to his coffee. He drinks about 36 ounces a day from a giant tub, laced with sweetener, and he probably drinks more when he gets to work. I still love my soda, and I don't want to be drinking insane amounts of caffeine--I've been through that phase of my life, and it doesn't need to happen again. So I went to Target last night and bought a 4-cup coffee maker and some decaf ground, and brought my own coffee to work today.
It's another one of those "holy shit I'm an adult" moments. It's also one of those "holy shit I'm just like my father" moments. It's funny when you start realizing your parents' traits in yourself; usually it's a good thing, but it's still strange. I'm very much like my father, as I think I've probably discussed before. My mom and sister get cold sores; my dad and I get canker sores. My mom and sister can be hot tempered; my dad and I get annoyed a lot, but rarely really, really mad. There's 101 more examples, but no one needs to be subjected to them.
My coffee maker was quite nice today. I'm looking forward to it through the winter. Maybe I'll start gradually decreasing the milk and become like my dad. Maybe I'll get myself a giant tub-mug to drink out of. Maybe my dad would like my apartment now if he came to visit, since the 4-cup maximum is his minimum for waking up.
I did live through college, and grad school, and a crappy freelancing job and year and a half of a real job without drinking coffee. Diet Coke and similar products--diet cherry Coke, diet Pepsi, whatever--have always been my best caffeinated friends. They make me happy. And they're so deliciously cold and bubbly, and sometimes feel like you're drinking battery acid. Sodas are for me.
Last winter I got mildly hooked on the cafe au lait (misto, if you happen to go to Starbucks, because they are freaking Nazis). It's one-half or one-third milk, which cuts the bitterness of the coffee, and it's warm and sweet when you throw in a few sweetener. I used to like to stop and get one over the winter when I was done running in the freezing rain or something equally stupid. The cooler weather lately (although it's getting into the low 80s now as I speak, naturally) has made me crave them again.
I decided to start making my own instead of throwing $2.50 at Starbucks every time. I brought milk up to work, and last week mixed my own drinks with the giant communal coffee pot in our break room. Then on Friday I realized I was drinking more caffeine than I really needed, and I worried about going down what Dan refers to as "that slippery slope."
My dad is addicted to his coffee. He drinks about 36 ounces a day from a giant tub, laced with sweetener, and he probably drinks more when he gets to work. I still love my soda, and I don't want to be drinking insane amounts of caffeine--I've been through that phase of my life, and it doesn't need to happen again. So I went to Target last night and bought a 4-cup coffee maker and some decaf ground, and brought my own coffee to work today.
It's another one of those "holy shit I'm an adult" moments. It's also one of those "holy shit I'm just like my father" moments. It's funny when you start realizing your parents' traits in yourself; usually it's a good thing, but it's still strange. I'm very much like my father, as I think I've probably discussed before. My mom and sister get cold sores; my dad and I get canker sores. My mom and sister can be hot tempered; my dad and I get annoyed a lot, but rarely really, really mad. There's 101 more examples, but no one needs to be subjected to them.
My coffee maker was quite nice today. I'm looking forward to it through the winter. Maybe I'll start gradually decreasing the milk and become like my dad. Maybe I'll get myself a giant tub-mug to drink out of. Maybe my dad would like my apartment now if he came to visit, since the 4-cup maximum is his minimum for waking up.
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Error
Yesterday, while the PR person and I were waiting for this doctor-source to finish with patients, we scheduled a time to talk to another doctor-source. I wrote down the doc's name and the time in my notebook so I could talk to him today.
Today I knock off for lunch and get back to five missed calls on my work phone. Whoops. I completely forgot to take the appointment out of my notebook and put it on my calendar. I cannot function, day to day, without my calendar for scheduled phone calls, so I had missed the phone call and it was a huge snafu.
I ended up calling the PR person back, apologizing profusely--I'd never done this before, and I felt incredibly embarrassed and just plaint stupid--and she ended up conferencing the doctor in for about 15 minutes between patients. I got my interview, I did lots more apologizing, and it all ended well.
Strangely, I looked back at my notes and found out I did leave the office about three minutes after the time we'd set up for the doctor-source to call me. So, technically, I was here for the appointment. But three minutes is a lousy error times, especially that I usually give people about 15 minutes before I try calling them.
I did another interview with a woman today and found myself amused by how much she was assuming about me while talking with me on the phone. I'd never met her or talked to her before, but she said she was a baby boomer, she had grown children, and she made an off-hand comment about the lacking work ethic of the younger generation (and that younger generation would be . . . me. Her theory may be right. I'm at work writing a damn blog post instead of writing stories.).
People often say, Well, you're probably too young to remember, or, I'm old and I remember a time when, etc etc. People will ask if I'm married or if I have children. People will ask if I own a house. People also draw correlations and ask me to remember something that happened before I was even born.
It's just funny to think how much I infer from a conversation with someone on the phone, even if I have no freaking idea. And it's funny how they do the same.
But now me and my lacking work ethic should go do real work.
Today I knock off for lunch and get back to five missed calls on my work phone. Whoops. I completely forgot to take the appointment out of my notebook and put it on my calendar. I cannot function, day to day, without my calendar for scheduled phone calls, so I had missed the phone call and it was a huge snafu.
I ended up calling the PR person back, apologizing profusely--I'd never done this before, and I felt incredibly embarrassed and just plaint stupid--and she ended up conferencing the doctor in for about 15 minutes between patients. I got my interview, I did lots more apologizing, and it all ended well.
Strangely, I looked back at my notes and found out I did leave the office about three minutes after the time we'd set up for the doctor-source to call me. So, technically, I was here for the appointment. But three minutes is a lousy error times, especially that I usually give people about 15 minutes before I try calling them.
I did another interview with a woman today and found myself amused by how much she was assuming about me while talking with me on the phone. I'd never met her or talked to her before, but she said she was a baby boomer, she had grown children, and she made an off-hand comment about the lacking work ethic of the younger generation (and that younger generation would be . . . me. Her theory may be right. I'm at work writing a damn blog post instead of writing stories.).
People often say, Well, you're probably too young to remember, or, I'm old and I remember a time when, etc etc. People will ask if I'm married or if I have children. People will ask if I own a house. People also draw correlations and ask me to remember something that happened before I was even born.
It's just funny to think how much I infer from a conversation with someone on the phone, even if I have no freaking idea. And it's funny how they do the same.
But now me and my lacking work ethic should go do real work.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Fish & Bitch
Andrew, who works at the Star-Telegram, and I went out to get lunch today. I had a wicked sushi craving, and he'd never had it before, so we settled on a place where he could order other food just in case the sushi wasn't to his liking.
I've known Andrew for years, and we first met at the school paper, and I think he's been with the Star-Telegram for well over a year. We're good friends, and he comes out with Dan and me pretty frequently (when we're in Fort Worth, these days, which is always a toss-up) for drinks and food. I hadn't seen him in a few weeks, and the topic turned to what it always does when journalists get together--the pitiful state of the industry.
This happened a few weeks ago when I was at an event at a university in Dallas. I met a half-dozen public relations people for the schools involved, and half of them had been at the Dallas Morning News. We did all the small-talk thing, and then we all started talking about papers and how they're all going down the toilet. We talked about the great journalistic minds who took a buy-out or got fired because they had too much experience, too much seniority, required too much money on their paychecks. Who needs wisdom and experience when you can hire two cheap fairly recent grads for the same amount?
Andrew's also doing grad school right now, and he's in a sort of safe spot. The Star-Telegram and its parent company, McClatchy, have been in some really hard times lately. (Frankly, who isn't?) Andrew and I talked about the Star-Telegram and the Business Press, but the conversation could have been about any newspaper.
He also brought up this recent article about how girls bond by talking and whining to each other (cannot find the link, grr). We determined this is what journalists do, too, because there's this undercurrent of fear in every journalist's heart at the moment. But as LeVar Burton on Reading Rainbow said, you don't have to take my word for it. Just go ask any journalist.
I've known Andrew for years, and we first met at the school paper, and I think he's been with the Star-Telegram for well over a year. We're good friends, and he comes out with Dan and me pretty frequently (when we're in Fort Worth, these days, which is always a toss-up) for drinks and food. I hadn't seen him in a few weeks, and the topic turned to what it always does when journalists get together--the pitiful state of the industry.
This happened a few weeks ago when I was at an event at a university in Dallas. I met a half-dozen public relations people for the schools involved, and half of them had been at the Dallas Morning News. We did all the small-talk thing, and then we all started talking about papers and how they're all going down the toilet. We talked about the great journalistic minds who took a buy-out or got fired because they had too much experience, too much seniority, required too much money on their paychecks. Who needs wisdom and experience when you can hire two cheap fairly recent grads for the same amount?
Andrew's also doing grad school right now, and he's in a sort of safe spot. The Star-Telegram and its parent company, McClatchy, have been in some really hard times lately. (Frankly, who isn't?) Andrew and I talked about the Star-Telegram and the Business Press, but the conversation could have been about any newspaper.
He also brought up this recent article about how girls bond by talking and whining to each other (cannot find the link, grr). We determined this is what journalists do, too, because there's this undercurrent of fear in every journalist's heart at the moment. But as LeVar Burton on Reading Rainbow said, you don't have to take my word for it. Just go ask any journalist.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
PR Etiquette
I have a problem with people touching me.
It's not a huge problem; I don't have an anxiety attack if someone touches my hand or something. It's just a professional problem. I find it comes up with PR people, because I work with them fairly regularly and I'm pretty friendly with most of them.
Friendly, but not friends, with the rare exception. (Very rare, like I knew them before I got a job or some such.) Here's the thing: I like shaking people's hands for work stuff. When I see a PR person, when I meet a source, when I see someone I see every month--shake the hand. Love it. A good, firm handshake, lots of smiling, lots of friendly remarks about how vacation was or whatnot.
The problem is when you get those PR people who want to hug everyone. That weirds me out. I recently ran into a PR person I'd only met once before and I got a hug from this person. There are some PR people who just do that--they meet you once and then hug you every time after.
I don't get it. It just doesn't seem professional at all. It seems like in business school they'd teach you not to hug people. They teach you how to interview and meet with clients, so surely they'd cover "hugging," too. I didn't go to business school, so maybe they don't cover this. Also, I bet a lot of PR people didn't go to business school either, so maybe they didn't get this fictional business etiquette class either. I'm not a particularly huggy person--I don't even really hug friends that I've known forever unless I haven't seen them in a long time and they live across the country. When PR people want to hug me, even if it's just a half hug, it makes me extremely uncomfortable.
Is this something that a human resources person at a company would cover? Under the same personal/business topics as dating within the office, spending company time on Facebook and sexual harassment at the office?
Is this in an episode of The Office?
(Also, I will post about the Red Sox game as soon as CVS fixes the photo CD I paid for. Cross your fingers.)
It's not a huge problem; I don't have an anxiety attack if someone touches my hand or something. It's just a professional problem. I find it comes up with PR people, because I work with them fairly regularly and I'm pretty friendly with most of them.
Friendly, but not friends, with the rare exception. (Very rare, like I knew them before I got a job or some such.) Here's the thing: I like shaking people's hands for work stuff. When I see a PR person, when I meet a source, when I see someone I see every month--shake the hand. Love it. A good, firm handshake, lots of smiling, lots of friendly remarks about how vacation was or whatnot.
The problem is when you get those PR people who want to hug everyone. That weirds me out. I recently ran into a PR person I'd only met once before and I got a hug from this person. There are some PR people who just do that--they meet you once and then hug you every time after.
I don't get it. It just doesn't seem professional at all. It seems like in business school they'd teach you not to hug people. They teach you how to interview and meet with clients, so surely they'd cover "hugging," too. I didn't go to business school, so maybe they don't cover this. Also, I bet a lot of PR people didn't go to business school either, so maybe they didn't get this fictional business etiquette class either. I'm not a particularly huggy person--I don't even really hug friends that I've known forever unless I haven't seen them in a long time and they live across the country. When PR people want to hug me, even if it's just a half hug, it makes me extremely uncomfortable.
Is this something that a human resources person at a company would cover? Under the same personal/business topics as dating within the office, spending company time on Facebook and sexual harassment at the office?
Is this in an episode of The Office?
(Also, I will post about the Red Sox game as soon as CVS fixes the photo CD I paid for. Cross your fingers.)
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