The Day You Find Out I’m a Janitor

That’s today. Or, whatever day it is you’re reading this.

I’ve been a closeted towel-bowl scrubber and floor-vacuumer for the past while after responding to an ad on Craigslist, and training for 15 minutes. When I met the cleaning company woman for my “interview,” she asked where else I worked. I said, “At the paper,” which, you know, is a big one.

“Do you throw papers there?” she asked next. The twice-college graduate inside me winced, but I smiled and replied, “No. I do other…stuff.”

Wiping down countertops and emptying a lot of trash cans have become part of my routine five days a week. It might be unusual, different, and undesirable for some.

But it’s now part of my crazy journey. It a thread in the fabric of my story that, years from now, I’ll reflect on and chuckle about – not out of shame, but out of humor and maybe a little bit of admiration for the self that I was who hustled to make a student loan payment, or to help pay my way to a foreign country, or to be able to afford a car.  

And maybe I’ll always keep a cleaning job on the side. I thought that the other night at 1:30 while I was sweeping around a toilet. I rather like melting into the rhythmic monotony of emptying trash, dusting, wiping down mirrors, sweeping, vacuuming…

I was cleaning the other night and one of the employees came rushing through the building. She scared me shitless because I’ve NEVER seen anyone and it’s my worst fear to look up and suddenly see someone watching me. I said to her, laughing, “Oh my gosh, you scared me!” She said nothing.

When she was done getting whatever it was she came for in the break-room, she breezed by. I told her (again) that she scared me because she didn’t give me a warning call-out. She said, “Have fun” and kept walking. I told her to have a good night. I got nothing in response.

There was part of me for a moment that rose up in indignation. You should tell her who you are! Tell her you are educated. Do not let yourself be treated that way.

And then I chuckled and kept emptying my trash cans.

Be nice to your janitors. We’re everywhere.

{And if you’re reading this and you know I’m a janitor then maybe today’s the day you find out I’m an international journalist running a media nonprofit, I’m a journalist at the 54^th largest newspaper in the US, and I teach at a university. Maybe you think to yourself, “I should have said hello.”}

My Monday mornings

My Monday mornings look a little bit different.

First, they're mine.

My Monday mornings...

I've excused myself from the rat-race of corporate-ness, the competition of money-centered media, and I've struck out on a different path. My path.

It's been four months and I'm still just as exhilarated about my decision today as I was the night I made it.

Sometimes you just know.

You know when you're supposed to take that chance.

{talk to that boy}
{take that trip}
{invest that money}
{buy that dog}
{make that friend}
{let that go}

I fired my employer on Feb. 13.
On Feb. 14, I was on a plane to Kenya.

Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean on Feb. 21ish, I wondered if I'd have the same assuredness half-a-world-away as I did on that day.

Yes, even stronger.
And today it's even stronger.

Sometimes you just know, and sometimes you just have to jump.

But maybe you're scared.

It's OK.

I'm scared shitless nearly every day.

Taking that step is petrifyingly scary.

Whoa, holy-scariness.

Before I jumped, I was so good at running through scenarios in my head and they usually defaulted to negative ones.

What if....
I don't have enough money.
I fail.
I made a mistake.
I miscalculated the timing.
I overshot my jump.
I crash and burn.
I humiliate myself.
I let my family down.

A couple years ago, my life coach suggested that if I'm going to play the What-If Game, that I change the rules.

What if...
I succeed.
I am making the perfect choice.
I am an example.
I am right on time.

My new favorite singer says it like this:

"What if I fly,
then will I feel the freedom on my skin
What if I,
close my eyes, trust the wind and just lean in?
I'll get there...if I dare...
If I fly.

So what if I'm afraid?
So what if my heart breaks?
But what if I fly?"

Be brave, my friends.
You'll know when you're supposed to jump.
But be prepared.
It'll probably be when you least expect it.

the life of a breaking news story

The exhilirating part of my job is that it's so dang unpredictable, and nothing makes breaking news faster than a dumbass and weather.

But how does a breaking news story get from the scene to your computer screen? Or smart phone or tablet? The answer is simple: a team of people dedicated to their jobs, whether it's on a Sunday morning or not.

I thought I'd give you a behind-the-scenes look on the real time life of a breaking news story, and what could be more perfect an example then the news of today.

My phone rings at 9:30 and I'll admit: it woke me up. Seeing it was one of our photographers, I cleared my voice a million times, tested it (can you tell you've been sleeping? Nah, you're good), answered the phone.

"I'm sorry I woke you." Dang it. I have yet to nail the "you just woke me up but you'd never know" voice.

Something big's going on at O'Reilly Auto Parts - cops, SWAT, dogs, highways blocked. OK. Now I'm more than awake. I have details, all the information she can give me, all the information I need to abruptly hang up with her and make other calls.

{Here's the thing about breaking news. It's breaking. You don't have time to lollygag and speculate. You've got to move. In these situations, I've been known to hang up on reporters/photographers - you give me the necessary info and pleasantries are discarded for the sake of the news.}

I call the reporter on duty - she's about an hour away. I don't have an hour to wait. End that call. Take about 20 seconds to analyze my staff, mentally running off names and reasons why they're not available. I land on the one reporter who I'm counting on being available on his day off and more than capable of handling the story with me. I was right on both counts.

Everything's in place. The photographer's already on the scene; the reporter's on the way and I will be too. And then I wonder momentarily if I can do the work I need to from home. Nope. But that means your whole day's thrown off. Yeah, so? And it means you're not going to finish the projects you had planned. And? And it means you're not getting the full weekend off you'd been waiting for. Shhhh.

I put the dogs away, throw on some clothes, pack a lunch, which thankfully I'd cooked the night before, just hadn't planned on eating it at work, and received a text message from the photographer on the scene that police said we were dealing with a possible hostage situation.

After I contemplated for a second what to do with the information - I put it on our Facebook page. That was the first our readers were hearing about it, approximately 25 minutes after we arrived on the scene. But we had information and we had it from the source we needed it from: the police spokesperson.

{Sometimes that's the most frustrating thing about breaking news. We may know what's going on, but we have to wait to confirm it.}

I stopped and got a cup of coffee. At the exit I take to get to the paper, traffic was backed up for miles. My second Facebook status was warning readers about the obvious traffic problem.

I get to the newsroom about 45 minutes after the intitial phone call from our photographer. At 10:31, I got a phone call from the reporter on the scene who fed me the information he had from police. By 10:38, I've typed the information and put it on our website and linked to it from our Facebook page.

At 10:57, the reporter calls again with our first description of the suspect. I update the information on our website and Facebook page. At 11:05, I hear from the reporter again who says the suspect is no longer in the building; it's over. I again update our website and Facebook page.

The reporter and photographer return to the newsroom. Our adrenaline's still pumping and this is when they tell me everything they saw at the scene, how it all happened in incremental details and how we were first on the scene, first to break the story. And yeah, we're a little proud.

The photographer edits the photos; the reporter makes some follow up phone calls and writes the story. He leaves, I edit it. I talk to the page designer about where the story should go and four hours after I was woken up on my Sunday morning, I'm leaving the newsroom.

I'm thankful

I'm thankful for dogs who are always happy to see me.
I'm thankful for hushed conversations in the break room.
I'm thankful for beer that makes me sleepy.
I'm thankful for books.

I'm thankful for friends who close the distance.
I'm thankful for friends who work 10 steps from me.
I'm thankful for dogs who return from the river.
I'm thankful for text messages.

I'm thankful for family, even when they hurt.
I'm thankful for fulfillment in my job.
I'm thankful for new glasses on the way.
I'm thankful for a new cell phone.

I'm thankful for all things beautiful, small, unsightly.
I'm thankful for life's detours and redirections.
I'm thankful for goals and power to achieve them.
I'm thankful for faith.

it's been one of those days and weeks when...

... the basket of clean laundry that I set on my handmade dining room table still sits there.

... the book that I'll be writing a review for soon hasn't been read.

... my dinner was eaten in shifts. First through the Starbucks drive-thru, and then when a colleague brought me fried rice in a box.

... I spend 6 minutes in my front yard at 10 p.m. playing fetch with Skye. It's my way of saying "Sorry for working so long today, and please don't run laps in the Cottage."

... I execute my housekeeping in 10 minute spurts at the end of long work days because that's all I have energy for.

... conversations with my mom last for four minutes in hushed tones over my work computer.

... I miss my sisters.

... I could barely walk today after two days of working out. Could I be any more out of shape???

... plans and dreams and aspirations seem so close.

... this glass of wine and conversations with two friends in one night is enough to call this day good, and go to bed.

went to the big 'D' and I do mean Dallas

Go big or go home.

We went big.

I spent the weekend in Dallas at the annual Associated Press awards banquet and it was amazing on many, many levels. The 4.5-star hotel; the food; the multiple open bars; the waiters carrying trays of wine; the esteemed journalists present; the room service at 3 a.m. after an open bar; the panelists; the conversations with journalists much smarter than I; making connections, friends...and...winning.

We won 13 awards over the course of the weekend, starting Saturday at a luncheon. Some of our reporters and photographers won individual awards and our entire staff won project awards. And then, the big one, announced Sunday at noon.

It was the announcement of the Newspaper of the Year awards in the four categories of newspapers (dependent on the size of Sunday circulation.)

I am pleased and so doggone proud to say that for the first time (after placing second place for the last two years), my newspaper is Newspaper of the Year.

We did it.

The sweat, the stress, the proverbial blood, the tears, the frustrations, the little victories along the way, the late nights, pushing deadlines, day-in and day-out toiling...when it was all weighed and measured, we were found to be the best.

I got a bit teary eyed over it when I was driving alone in my car late Sunday evening. It wasn't the winning, or really even the prestige. It was the nods of respect from people, and the quiet trace of a thought:

You have what it takes.

Maybe I do. Maybe I'll lose it one day. But for now, and for the last 365 days, we did it.

some sentences strung together

I worked 60 hours this week, and have wondered why I'm so doggone tired at night. It makes sense now, doesn't it? There's nothing more comforting than driving up the driveway in a car that spent the day in the shop being repaired and having the dog-who-thinks-he's-mine running alongside so.excited.to.see.me. In fact, there's nothing more comforting than just being home.

My car really did spend the day in the shop getting a problem fixed that I was told about five months ago. Apparently wheel bearings are important and mine needed to be replaced...in October. Well, you know, they got replaced today. I hated spending my meager tax refund on such a boring project, but I was very thankful. Very, very thankful. And, since it was my wheel bearings that were fixed and for the past five months I've smelled an *ahem* burning smell every time I exit the vehicle, I got my sniffer right next to my tire tonight to see if I could smell it. It smelled hot and I wondered if that's what a tire usually smells like after it's been driven. I don't know. I've never smelled my tires before.

Not only does my mechanic make a prioritized to-do list for me - he REMEMBERS it! *sigh*

I love the drive home from a long day's work. I love seeing the Cottage waiting for me, I love the dog who's here to greet me. I love my plants who wait to be watered, and my bed. I love that I don't have to work this weekend. Well, technically, work.

This week was productive and I like that feeling. It mixed all the elements of why I love my job - unpredictable, organization, planning, delivering. (I'm aware the tense agreement is a little funky on those descriptors).

I just killed an insanely huge moth on my bed with a pile of paper. Yes, I have a small pile of 81/2x11 sheets of paper on my bed. They have words on them.

It's time for me to divorce myself from a computer.
Good night, digital world.

grace like rain

Sometimes I let ungrace get the best of me.

Like this morning when breaking news was all around and adrenaline was flowing.

And tonight when I can't figure out how to transfer money from a debit card to my PayPal account.

Or Monday night when my "check engine" light came on, and still hasn't magically gone away.

Or today when my computer was running so slow and inhibiting my work.

Or last week when things kept falling through and I was scrambling at the very last minute for a front-page solution.

Deep breaths, and a determination to find it. Grace.

Grace for myself, grace for my heart rate and blood pressure, grace for the people around me.

It's part of being the leader I want to be, and sometimes that means excusing myself to the bathroom (because that's one of the few places people can't find me) and breathing deeply. And reminding myself that I don't want to be that person who brings everyone around me down, and who emits negative energy.

Even in my less-than-glorious moments, I want to exhibit grace, but first I have to find it, which is why I was in the bathroom. And it was there. Grace. Grace like rain.

And when I emerged, I think I did so with ease or, well, grace.

my Tuesday night

It's been a simple night, nothing fancy.

I left the newsroom early (for me), came home and followed my usual routine. Routines is what stuff is made of, isn't it?

It's funny the routines I follow without thinking. Purse and lunch bag go on the counter. I unpack the clean Tupperware from my bag, put it away and fold the bag into the cupboard. Simultaneously, I open the utility room door and let Zeb out, and gesture him out the front door. I tie Skye up.

And then I take my clothes and shoes off and change into my lounge-wear. I turn music on.

Tonight there was no work to do. I mean, there's always work to do, but tonight I took a reprieve.

Instead, I heated up a cup of weak coffee from this morning and crawled in bed, my back leaning up against my homemade (and nearly finished) headboard.

I Facebooked. I Pinterested. I emailed. I Internet-surfed.

I cut out coupons and played with Skye.

I had a session with my life coach. Everyone needs a life coach.

I worked on a project in the kitchen. A dug-it-out-of-a-burn-pile project that needs some TLC, and still needs a little more.

Started watching a Youtube video about 15 questions a single woman should ask a Christian guy before getting involved. By question 2 I was annoyed by the delivery.

I'm thankful, and I'm looking at the picture hanging on the wall at the end of my bed.

Let it be.

It's still a good reminder.

smelling a memory

I used to scrub toilets for a living in the not-so-distant past, relatively speaking.

But I had completely forgotten about this one place, until I poured a good dose of Pine-Sol in my kitchen sink and before I knew it, I was back within those cinderblock walls.

It wasn't jail! Not those kind of cinderblock walls, although at the time it felt like it.

It was a summer, maybe 2004 or 2005, and it was in Kentucky. It was me and my three sisters and we found work just down the road from our house at a couple different Kentucky Lake resorts. Me and my two sisters were cleaning ladies; our other sister was the cook in the little resort cafe.

This is where people spent their money to spend a week or ten days in cinderblock barracks. Or poorly decorated cabins. But they were on the lake and daddies got to fish with their sons and mothers got to lay out with their daughters. More power to ya.

While the over eager youth groups camped out in the barracks, rows and rows of shady, Pine-Sol drenched hotel rooms were available for the single person or couple.

And we, the cleaning ladies, sped around on golf carts with our industrial-strength Pine-Sol, which is now on my kitchen floor.

We didn't last there very long. The owners of the joint were aggressive assholes. Cleaning ladies and cooks we may have been, but respect we will deserved.

We migrated just a bit farther down the road to another resort with actual condos and rustic cabins with hot tubs and whirlpool jets.

And a higher grade of golf cart.

"Hey, do you remember that shady resort we used to work at? And () was the cook?" I texted my sister.

This was in the midst of a rapid fire texting conversation that involved her telling me she couldn't bring an orange snack to our all-orange Texas Longhorns watch party this afternoon. As a matter of fact, it's a red snack.

"Where was this? I don't recall," she replied.

"In Kentucky. It wasn't Tracy's place; it was the other one. They tried to not pay () one time so we all quit. It had nasty-ass cabins and huge barracks with cinderblock walls."

"Yessss!!!!! Haha, I remember."

What is it with us and cinderblock walls jarring our memory?

"What about it?" she followed up.

"I remembered it this morning because I poured pine-sol in my kitchen sink and my whole house smells like it."

"Ahhh, the memories!"

A few seconds later:

"Do you remember the toilets we cleaned at Riverside RV park for $1 a day?"

No, no, I do not.

That, dear sister, is a memory I am not privvy to. I will leave it to you.

may history teach me, as I write it

In the last 30-some odd hours, I've been taken back 20 years to Oct. 16, 1991, the day of the Luby's massacre.

It was some sort of fate that forced our October 1991 book to open to Oct. 17, 1991 when I cracked it open in our library Wednesday. Story after story after story lined the archaic pages for days, months after chronicling the day's events, the press conferences, the release of the victim's names, the final number of those dead and wounded, the autopsy report of the shooter, the 9-1-1 calls and dispatch communications.

"We're going to need a lot of help," one officer said through his communication device.

Our photo editor brought me a small urn-like box today. "Luby's negatives and prints," was scrawled on the side in permanent marker.

Dozens of pictures, carefully labeled on the back, were in the box and despite the whirlwind of newsroomness swirling around me, it was all shut out as I sifted through the photos. The truck crashed through the window in the dining room, bullet holes in the windows, police officers guarding the door, ambulances, victims being loaded into Army helicopters that landed on the frontage road, an officer tending to a victim and then three frames later covering the man's face with the white cloth draped over his body, an officer carrying a stack of body bags into the building, victims being treated, Luby's employees talking to police, people hugging, crying, a survivor who's parents were shot and killed hugging other victim's family members...it all captured the story of loss and mayhem.

These are moments that stand still for me.

They are also moments that put into perspective the importance of my role as a journalist. It's easy to preach that we are history's record keepers, but until you're immersed in newspapers and photos 20 years old, you don't actually get it.

Today's news is tomorrow's history. How am I doing at preserving it?

doubling, tripling back

"Writing, I think, is not apart from living. Writing is a kind of double living. The writer experiences everything twice. Once in reality and once in that mirror which waits always before or behind." ~Catherine Drinker Bowen, Atlantic, December 1957

I had a friend once say she was jealous of my job because at the end of every day, I could see tangible evidence of my work in the form of a news story.

The truth is that there is sometimes little time to celebrate the printed one, because our minds are already on the next story and the next one and the next one.

It's a revolving, looping door and within one day, I go through many loops and double back many times.

It starts with an idea and then the idea is developed into a concept and the concept is nurtured into a story. The story is written, and we double back to the idea. Sometimes the idea is modified. Sometimes the story is modified to comply with the idea. And it's repeated until they align. Sometimes the process is accelerated (daily deadlines), sometimes the process is matured. Sometimes the process is whipping along at such speeds that all you can do is hold on.

This happens every day for every person in the newsroom and for nearly each looping, doubling back, there I am.

It's casting a line, waiting, drawing it back in. Casting, waiting, drawing. Looping and doubling back.

There are bigger loops too that are in my head. Front page today, front page tomorrow, front page Sunday. Inside section centerpiece today, tomorrow, the next day. What's going out front Monday? Tuesday of next week?

I have to cast my line further than the day under my nose, but still come back to today to the smaller loops rotating in my bigger one.

It's a challenge, living in the moment my readers are in, but planning days ahead of them.

Is today Wednesday? No, it's Tuesday, but it's Wednesday's paper I have in my head so I come back to Tuesday, but I can already tell you what's on Thursday's front page. When I get better at this, I'll be able to tell you what's on next Thursday's front page.

The loops and doubling back make time race by in increments of moments, hours, days, weeks.

Is it Sept. 18 already? Yes, because the water conservation package we've been planning for two weeks is running.

It is a kind of double living, this casting the line, waiting, drawing it in.

Then I lay in bed awake at night and think of all the things I haven't had time to think about during the day.

too long for a Facebook status

There's a blog coming soon about emotions, work, stress (you know, all the fun things in life), but for now I will tell you a story.

I needed peanut M&Ms so I went to the breakroom to get some out of the vending machine.

A man was sitting eating dinner. I said hello, as I always do to random people in my breakroom.

I vended my M&Ms and they got stuck.

I gingerly tilted the small vending machine towards me but they wouldn't budge.

A quandry.

"My M&Ms are stuck," I said.

"Do you need help?" he asked, already out of his seat to assist me.

"No, I just didn't want to come across as too violent."

He laughed, backed up with his hands in the air, and I pounded the vending machine forward and back until it released my prize.

moments of peace

Sometimes managing a newsroom is much like balancing gravity on your fingertips.
It's crushing.

There are two moments, among many, that I especially enjoy.

One, when the sun's streaming through the blinds onto my desk and computer, creating a glare off the thin layer of dust on my monitor, and the room is either empty or mostly silent.



I get my first look at the day's paper, a second and third glance at what the next day's paper is going to look like, I drink my coffee that I've purchased on my route to work, and if it's a normal morning I eat my oatmeal at approximately 9:15. I check my email, log into Facebook, Twitter and start browsing the TV websites.

At the other end of the day, there is a similar image except in reverse. The sun's lingering light casts a shadow over my workspace and I've edited copy for the next day's paper and "nurtured" (as I like to call it) the news budget for the next few days.



The next morning it will start all over again in a rhythm of sameness and yet predictable unpredictability.

And greeting me every morning will be these...

working and waiting

It is no secret that I am a multitasker. Case in point, I have five windows open in my Internet browser right now. My email, work Twitter, Facebook, Blogspot, and a Google search on the anatomy of a wildfire. I am also remoted into my work desktop and have three windows open there.

But when I needed inspiration yesterday to write the final installment of a travel series for my paper, I headed to the place I was writing about. In tow was my dog, my brother and sister and a picnic lunch. While they frolicked in the lake, I was hammering out my article, but it wasn't quite fast enough for their liking.



My back is sunburned from staying in this position too long.

5 days without a phone, and holy crap, it's almost Sept. 1

I might as well have been naked the past five days.

I was phoneless.

It's an isolated feeling to think that no one could get in touch with me in the rare moments when I wasn't connected to a computer monitor, which wasn't very often thanks to my work computer, laptop and home desk top.

But still, there were moments.

Moments like covering a city council meeting Friday night. While the council was in executive session, my sister's boyfriend urgently Facebooked me via my laptop that I needed to call my sister ASAP. Despite my urgent requests ("is this really serious?") he assured me it was and so I tracked down the cell phone of the city secretary and placed frantic phone calls to three family members before my sister finally called me back.

They wanted to know if I could grab a beer with them later.

I had to use a non-work land line for the first time last night to put my people in place to cover a fire. That was a first in a freakishly long time.

And then there was the problem of an alarm clock. I paced the floors trying to figure that one out. I thought of winging it, but that's never a good idea. So I googled alarms and actually found one online. It woke me up.

I typically average about 3,500 sent/received text messages a month. I received/sent not a one the past five days.

As disconnected as I might have felt, the silence was a nice break and made me think that when I got my phone back, perhaps I need to establish boundaries. Is it absolutely necessary that I receive email notifications from art guilds at 1 in the morning? Most likely not.

Of course, there's a nagging urge in the back of my mind, what if that one email you need while traveling down the road comes in and you don't get it until minutes/hours later, and by then it's too late?. If that wasn't a reality, I wouldn't be worried, but it's happened.

And so I invariably stay connected to my phone, my email, and cranked my laptop open this morning at 6:46 after my 6:45 alarm went off. What did I miss? What needs my attention?

But, does it always need my attention?

I probably need a rule. No electronic devices before 8. If something's blown up or burned down, someone can call me. I will answer. But getting sucked into the cyber world before I've brushed my teeth or put on my glasses is probably not the best lifestyle choice.

So yes, I felt naked without my phone. I feel like I have my pacifier back, but I'm going to adjust my usage.

Or should I say dosage?

I forgot to put it on

There's no easy way for me to say this, and maybe it's one of those things I shouldn't admit to.

...

Nah. Where's the fun in that?

I forgot to put my bra on Wednesday morning.

Yup.

This crazy chick who might look like I have it all together actually forgot a key element (besides coffee) to my day.

What's worse is that I didn't realize it until I was fully (sans bra) dressed and reaching into the closet for my shoes.

And I saw my bra.

It was an awkward moment.

There was a sinking "maybe this is really happening" feeling in the pit of my stomach followed by a "nuh-huh, this can't be true."

A quick TSA-like pat down revealed it was true.

Who knows what the appropriate response is when you realize you were getting ready to walk into the world without a vital undergarment.

I put it on.

And then later when a friend emailed and asked how my day was, I used it as an example to show how mentally unavailable I am to myself right now.

This is how effing tired I am when I wake up in the morning!!

some words strung together

I'm tired tonight. It was going to be a long week anyway and then it got even longer. Yet somehow here we are at Friday. Already. And it's the end of Friday at that.

I'm thankful tonight. I have amazing friends who I can text at random times and who will text me back and then understand when I don't respond. It's because the newsroom is spinning and somehow it all has to come together to kick ass. And we have been.

I'm regretful tonight. If that's a word. Unless you were calling or texting me yesterday or today with an inside scoop on Naser Jason Abdo, it was unlikely you were being replied or responded to. In many cases, I told you that and I hope you weren't offended.

I haven't slept a whole lot leading up to tonight. Usually that is not a good idea for me, but somehow I've been able to maintain cohesive thoughts and decision-making skills. Like should I eat an ice-cream cone tonight, or should I bother with a wine glass or drink the remaining liquid out of the bottle?

I'm reflective tonight. What could I have done differently this week, especially yesterday and today? What should have I done that I didn't do? How can we improve?

I'm glad tonight. We beat CNN, and the NYT blog linked to us. That's an ego-booster.

Mostly, I'm tired tonight. I think my brain is reconciling with my body and they're coming to an awkward agreement that sleep is the best option for me as a whole right now.

And so hopefully I will sleep and I will not set an alarm.

this lake

This lake is nothing like this lake and it doesn't hold a candle to the memories I've made on that lake.

But, it sufficed tonight. Sufficed this hankering in me to get out into nature, to get lost in time, to write, to journal, to research, to email and to remember that despite the hectic days, there is always this peaceful place.

my stack of newspapers

There's a place in the newsroom, aside from the breakroom, that's as cathartic to me as the lake I'm sitting next to, and that's my stack of newspapers. I take great care of this stack, making sure that in the evenings and on weekends especially I help the pressing process by placing three large binders on top of them. I unknowingly straighten them approximately 12 times a day and when someone needs to look through them, I do it for them. And then make them promise to bring it back to me.

So when a cleaning crew started coming to our office, and we were told that stacks of newspapers would be their prey, I freaked.

Not my newspapers. I left a note on them with permission from our GM that my stack was fine. Leave it alone.

But then today a reporter informed me that some of his stuff had been thrown away and I hurled the words, "If they touch my stack of newspapers, I'm crying," out of my mouth without thinking. Another reporter said, "Oh, I know you will. You care a lot about those newspapers."

These newspapers.



I wrote a note and left it there tonight.