Monday, January 31, 2011

Stuck

It was a Saturday night.

I was home.

I had a rare two glasses of wine.

Jimmy was gone for the weekend.

It was me, TiVo, chick-flicks, dinner... and that yeah, that wine.

I started flipping through my latest BRIDES, casually watching Drew Barrymore's latest love tale: Going the Distance.

I suffered from a sudden wave of excitement about thee wedding.

I got an idea.

That idea -- to try on my wedding dress.

It was the first time it's been out of the bag since I picked it up.

I stepped into the flouffy dress, excitement mounting.

I pulled it up, getting it in place, when suddenly I realized something was missing.

Something crucial.

I freaking needed someone to ZIP THE DAMN THING.

Ugh.

Alright -- no one around. What now? I need to see it on!

I took it back off.

Zipped it... then decided to pull it over my head.

Suck in, slip it on!

Not so fast.

It suddenly stopped.

I realized it was my, eh... speed bumps.

This train was stuck.

I pulled the ivory pile of material up... nothing.

I tugged down, nothing.

Really stuck.

I started pacing.

I started panicking.

I started to talk to myself, reasoning with myself.

"You don't want to die like this."

"Well, there could be worse ways to die."

"At least I'll be in a pretty dress."

"Oh my God, Jimmy is 4 hours away."

Alright think. I have to get out of this by myself.

More pacing.

My face was turning red.

This fucking dress was tight.

Breathe.

Either I cut it off... or reach my non-double jointed arm around my body, find the zipper and pull like I've never pulled.

And maybe a small promise to God that I'll go to church if he helps a sister out.

Option two.

Operation Arm Reach.

The way I got my arm all the way around my body, I'll never know.

It was painfully, but successfully executed.

God.

I unzipped, exhaled, and pushed the taffeta down to the ground.

I let out a big pissed-off sigh.

I felt like I had just been stabbed in the back by a best friend.

I looked down at my dress with anguish and ran out of the room.

After five minutes of thinking about forming wrinkles I ran back in the room and lovingly picked up the neglected garment.

I hung it back up and decided... we can remain friends but need some time apart.

We need a break.

Full Speed


"Like an angry apple tree... I throw my apples when you get too close to me."


~Ingrid Michaelson
Lyrics from "Locked Up"

Saturday, January 22, 2011

This Isn't It

I produce newscasts for a living.

It's exhilarating and provides a huge adrenaline rush at times. You're always in the loop, usually ahead of the loop.

You know things before the rest of the world and it's amazing being at the center of what's happening and being able to deliver that first-hand account.

People ask me if I have power... I usually say no.

However, nightly I hand-pick what will air live at 11pm. I craft the mood, and tone in which our news is delivered operating under the guidelines and standards of our station/company.

Thousands of people watch. Thousands of people trust what we have to say and some of them, they watch every single night.

If they don't like it, they'll usually call and let us know about it. Usually in a completely rude manner.

But sometimes we get the kinder caller, who just wants to pass along a comment or concern.

It all comes down to money. Businesses won't advertise, unless the station can prove A LOT of people watch. That comes down to ratings. We have to get people to watch. And the managers who are my bosses will stop at nothing to make people watch. Which means new demands, new policies, and a whole lot of extra pressure.

Aye, the pressure.

My gynecologist said it best: Every job comes with it's stressors.

I can only imagine her vents at cocktail hour.

I guess what I'm getting at is... news is special. There is a special bond between those who have shed blood, sweat and tears in a newsroom. There is certain closeness between those who know what a VOSOT is.

News has made me an incredibly strong person. It takes a lot more for me to cry now. I have much thicker skin. I've met some of my best friends in the world in news. I wouldn't take any of my 7 years in news back.

But...

With all the pressure, and crying... (if you work in news, and try to tell me you haven't cried -- you are a big fat, fatty-fat liar. I used to have a favorite "cry stall" in the bathroom of my last station.) I just wonder... do I still love it, and is it still worth it?

I just don't know.

I'll be working at my current station for two more years, so I have some time to figure out what to do.

I think I'm starting to need a little more from what I do. I spend so much time and energy there. I deserve something other than wrinkles.

Maybe I'm just supposed to be doing something more.

But WHAT is it?

Dang.

Someone tell me.