Anyone who knows me certainly knows I’m not a morning person. Morning to me begins somewhere around 10 a.m. and night ends around 1 a.m. I’m a night owl by birth, often forcing myself to go to bed by midnight on a “school” night. It’s just the way I’ve always been. I compulsively and repetitively hit the snooze button every working morning, annoying the ever-living crap out of hubby. Of course, strangely, I can nearly spring out of bed early on the weekend, ready to suck all I can out of my day off. On a week day, however, it’s as if a boulder is sitting on my chest.
So imagine my surprise (and boiling blood pressure) when my boss told me I had start a new shift daily at 7 a.m. – quite the jump on my usual 10:30 a.m. sheriff’s office briefing - in the spirit of online journalism and our new venture, the continuous news desk, or CND, as we cleverly like to call it.
Truth be told, said boss wasn’t the first person to tell me of my new hours. Earlier that day I heard it through a friend who was flabbergasted that I hadn’t been told yet. Well such is my life at a metro paper. Anyway, after my temper tantrum and a week to stew, the early bird shift started Monday. Crusty eyed and hair soaked, I began my day’s work at the absurd hour, awaking before the sun. On my first day making early cop call the first dispatcher I spoke with seemed confused when I asked what was going on. “Everyone’s just waking up,” he said. Excellent point, by the way. Oh Wise Management please take note.
One thing I can’t complain about, though, is getting home early. Before, it was a rare day I got out by 7 p.m. and 8 p.m. or later weren’t unusual. Now, I’ve been getting out between 4 and 4:30 but I expect some glorious days I’ll get out by 3 p.m. I must say it’s a different world out there getting out the door in the late afternoon.
I must say I have learned some interesting things with these new hours for sure. On Monday, I went straight to Publix, our local grocery store, and to the deli counter where there were a few women ahead of me. Every time someone ordered something new, the deli workers offered to give them the first cuts as a little snackie cake. Now, I know this isn’t an usual practice but here’s what was a little odd: It was TWO FREE slices of each item. And every time a woman took the freebies they said the same thing: “I’m so hungry. I didn’t each lunch today.” Except for me. I had eaten lunch, wasn’t really hungry and still took the maple ham anyway. (Exhibit A: My expanding ass.) Then there was sharing. It seemed every lady was staring at the other’s luncheon meat or cheese as the samples were handed over the counter. My deli gal said she (meaning the chick next to me) could try MY ham. So I asked, not wanting to look like the bad guy. She politely declined. Phew, I thought. But then she said, “I had no idea they gave these out. My husband always does the shopping.” “Now you know why,” I told her.
A few minutes later, another lady was eyeballing my Boars Head Baby Swiss sample. “Ohhh. What is that?” she cooed. “Baby Swiss. It’s delicious. Here, try a piece,” I told her extending my hand. She hesitated, still eyeing my cheese. “It’s OK,” I told her. “Go ahead.” She walked over and started to tear a piece of my untouched top piece of cheese. “No.” I said. “Take the whole piece. There’s another one underneath.” She smiled and took it and started nibbling. “This is good,” she said, making assorted faces you make when something tickles your taste buds. “This is sooooo good,” she said at least two more times. “It is!” I said, popping another piece into my mouth.
Then I looked over at the bakery where a Publix employee was mixing up some sort of dessert, dishing it out into little mini plastic cups and passing those out. I think it might’ve even had ice cream in it. (Still, I resisted.) Across from her, another gal was cooking up a delectable-smelling chicken entrée of some sort and passing those samples out. (Again, miraculously, I resisted.) It was a virtual buffet. For Free. At the your local Publix. I thought, man, I’ve got to plan this right and I’ll get a free meal, plus dessert on a regular basis. So, every night I’m gonna head over there around 4:30 p.m. Maybe I’ll meet my deli gals at the counter and they’ll share new tastes with me, sort of cultural exchange and a lesson in sharing. I’m sure this is just one of the perks of being on the CND. That and maybe blogging again.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Junque for Sale
Why is it some of us don’t have it in our blood to simply donate our junk and instead we insist on spending a day trying to suck a few dollars out of strangers? You spend weeks sorting, tagging, cleaning stuff in preparation, all the while you can’t remember where you got half the crap in the first place (until your mother points out you're selling the Christmas potholders she gave you last year). And I swear the saleable garbage multiplies while it’s sitting in a pile waiting for the chosen sale day.
Seriously, how can two people acquire so much unneeded/unwanted stuff?
We’ve lived in our current house for nearly five years and ever since we moved in we’ve had the grandiose idea of turning the former detached garage into a game room/gym. It already had the wood floors, new windows, French doors and most drywall up to quickly make the transformation when we moved in. But all these years later it’s packed with a startling amount of God only knows what.
Sure, there’s a pool table but that’s been in its box for at least two years, leaning against the south wall. Sure, there’s air hockey, which has been covered with cardboard boxes for nearly as long. Yes, there’s an entertainment center but you can’t reach any of the stereo components because there’s more junk blocking them. The workout equipment is now a storage unit with assorted items stacked on the cushioned bench and things dangling from the weight bars. But the dream is there.
So, finally with some time to dedicate to our own house for the first time in a long time, dollar signs in our eyes and thinner bodies on our minds, we recently started that process of getting ready for our porch sale. We’re pros by now. I think we have upwards of a half-dozen yard sales under our belts. Seriously, how can two people acquire so much unneeded/unwanted stuff?
Before the crack of dawn today we dragged our asses out of bed, threw on yesterday’s clothes and started setting up. The folding tables went up first and then the tedious process of carrying boxes out and unloading them into some sort of neat arrangement began while the sun was still rising.
Today was going to be a good day. We carefully chose it. It’s art festival weekend at the bayou down the street. Ever since we moved here we’ve been saying that’d be a great day for a yard sale. No advertising necessary. Our neighborhood streets are automatically flooded with customers who have to walk by our house to get to the art sale. We’ve seen it year after year. In year’s past we’ve even heard the sounds of festival-goers’ car doors slamming just outside our house before we even get out of bed. We’ve been to other people’s crowded sales. What a perfect day for a porch sale!
Well, not today. We weren’t too sleepy-eyed to notice this morning as we transformed our front porch into Grandma’s Attic Shoppe that the street was already filled with cars. But it wasn’t even 8 a.m. yet. It was much too early for money-packing art lovers. And they weren’t cars at all actually; they were vans and trucks, many with trailers attached. Even a camper was parked across the street. Vendors! They were taking up our customers’ spots. It turns out the Boys and Girls Club down the street now prohibits vendors from parking in their lot. And the city has designated certain streets and areas for vendors and “local traffic” only. Evidently, our street is one of those special parking places. Curses!
So, it’s nearly 2 p.m. and we’ve made $17, not subtracting the $2 garage sale permit and the cost of tags. This is our worst yard sale ever. But even as we prepare to start packing it in, we’re not about to give up. There’s a buck to be made. So next Saturday, advertisement in the paper, we’ll once again drag our butts out of bed before the rooster crows and peddle our unneeded/unwanted wares to a stranger or two. I’m certain someone has just got to have our Goodyear tire clock and Sonic Action Jewelry Cleaner. I’m already of dreaming of what we could buy for our new game room/gym with that $3.75.
Seriously, how can two people acquire so much unneeded/unwanted stuff?
We’ve lived in our current house for nearly five years and ever since we moved in we’ve had the grandiose idea of turning the former detached garage into a game room/gym. It already had the wood floors, new windows, French doors and most drywall up to quickly make the transformation when we moved in. But all these years later it’s packed with a startling amount of God only knows what.
Sure, there’s a pool table but that’s been in its box for at least two years, leaning against the south wall. Sure, there’s air hockey, which has been covered with cardboard boxes for nearly as long. Yes, there’s an entertainment center but you can’t reach any of the stereo components because there’s more junk blocking them. The workout equipment is now a storage unit with assorted items stacked on the cushioned bench and things dangling from the weight bars. But the dream is there.
So, finally with some time to dedicate to our own house for the first time in a long time, dollar signs in our eyes and thinner bodies on our minds, we recently started that process of getting ready for our porch sale. We’re pros by now. I think we have upwards of a half-dozen yard sales under our belts. Seriously, how can two people acquire so much unneeded/unwanted stuff?
Before the crack of dawn today we dragged our asses out of bed, threw on yesterday’s clothes and started setting up. The folding tables went up first and then the tedious process of carrying boxes out and unloading them into some sort of neat arrangement began while the sun was still rising.
Today was going to be a good day. We carefully chose it. It’s art festival weekend at the bayou down the street. Ever since we moved here we’ve been saying that’d be a great day for a yard sale. No advertising necessary. Our neighborhood streets are automatically flooded with customers who have to walk by our house to get to the art sale. We’ve seen it year after year. In year’s past we’ve even heard the sounds of festival-goers’ car doors slamming just outside our house before we even get out of bed. We’ve been to other people’s crowded sales. What a perfect day for a porch sale!
Well, not today. We weren’t too sleepy-eyed to notice this morning as we transformed our front porch into Grandma’s Attic Shoppe that the street was already filled with cars. But it wasn’t even 8 a.m. yet. It was much too early for money-packing art lovers. And they weren’t cars at all actually; they were vans and trucks, many with trailers attached. Even a camper was parked across the street. Vendors! They were taking up our customers’ spots. It turns out the Boys and Girls Club down the street now prohibits vendors from parking in their lot. And the city has designated certain streets and areas for vendors and “local traffic” only. Evidently, our street is one of those special parking places. Curses!
So, it’s nearly 2 p.m. and we’ve made $17, not subtracting the $2 garage sale permit and the cost of tags. This is our worst yard sale ever. But even as we prepare to start packing it in, we’re not about to give up. There’s a buck to be made. So next Saturday, advertisement in the paper, we’ll once again drag our butts out of bed before the rooster crows and peddle our unneeded/unwanted wares to a stranger or two. I’m certain someone has just got to have our Goodyear tire clock and Sonic Action Jewelry Cleaner. I’m already of dreaming of what we could buy for our new game room/gym with that $3.75.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Boys Night Out, Plus One
One would think that for any woman or - for the sake of being liberal - any gay man, it would be a good night to have 300 chiseled and bare-chested Spartans clad only in leather briefs on a GINORMOUS screen before you. And, all the while, they're flexing their goods.
As if that wasn’t enough testosterone for me, I was the only girl in a group of seven which included Hubby, Lil’ Bro and four of his friends.
But the truth is four days after seeing "300" I’m still paying for it.
The IMAX slogan might be “think big” but this is one experience where I’ll have to say bigger just ain’t better.
Days before the release of this no-doubt guy flick, we bought tickets for Saturday night’s show online and then made sure we arrived at the theater 30 minutes before it started. We figured that was plenty of time since we already had the tickets and all we had to do was stick our credit cards in a self-serve machine and the passes would spit out. The extra dough we paid, I was assured, would be worth the "IMAX experience."
So we handed our tickets to the pimply-faced ticket checker and he promptly ordered us to line up with all the other “early” arrivals until it was time to be seated.
I had time to pee which entailed, of course being a woman and all, waiting for a stall. And when I returned to the line I had plenty of time to wait and complain.
Finally, with only a few minutes to spare before show time, we were slowly led through rope gates in an orderly fashion. We swore there was a ride at the end. Nope, just a dark and now almost full theater. To say our seats were less than ideal is like saying these so-called Spartans were in average shape. We were three rows back from the screen, a screen which is something like four or five stories tall.
For two hours I sat with my neck craned, body constantly shifting. To top that off, evidently, the air conditioning was on the fritz. In addition to the visual extravagances and the better-than-life sound, with all those people crammed into a Florida theater without A/C it was as if you could actually smell the Spartans as they did battle. That's one sensory stimulant I could've done without.
It took only moments outside in the chilly Tampa Bay air to cool down. My proximity to the big ass screen, however, is still very much with me. I’ve got a kink in my neck that just won’t give.
By Monday afternoon, it was so bad a co-worker took pity on me and kept giving me remedy after remedy. A vibrating neck pillow. A microwavable gym sock filled with rice (OK, it's not really a sock but has a remarkable resemblance). Finally, she just walked over and pretended she was my personal masseuse and kneaded my neck. OK, some people might find that a bit odd but you’d understand if you saw the desperation on my face as my neck pain ran north and my head started aching. And the whining. Oh, the constant whining. No wonder said co-worker did everything to fix me up.
To get the full picture of my situation that day, the first thing boss lady said to me when she came in was: “You don’t look good today!” This even with the cute outfit.
So the moral of this story is if you feel the need to see building sized men nearly in the buff, get there early. Wicked early and sit in the back, relax and enjoy the view.
As if that wasn’t enough testosterone for me, I was the only girl in a group of seven which included Hubby, Lil’ Bro and four of his friends.
But the truth is four days after seeing "300" I’m still paying for it.
The IMAX slogan might be “think big” but this is one experience where I’ll have to say bigger just ain’t better.
Days before the release of this no-doubt guy flick, we bought tickets for Saturday night’s show online and then made sure we arrived at the theater 30 minutes before it started. We figured that was plenty of time since we already had the tickets and all we had to do was stick our credit cards in a self-serve machine and the passes would spit out. The extra dough we paid, I was assured, would be worth the "IMAX experience."
So we handed our tickets to the pimply-faced ticket checker and he promptly ordered us to line up with all the other “early” arrivals until it was time to be seated.
I had time to pee which entailed, of course being a woman and all, waiting for a stall. And when I returned to the line I had plenty of time to wait and complain.
Finally, with only a few minutes to spare before show time, we were slowly led through rope gates in an orderly fashion. We swore there was a ride at the end. Nope, just a dark and now almost full theater. To say our seats were less than ideal is like saying these so-called Spartans were in average shape. We were three rows back from the screen, a screen which is something like four or five stories tall.
For two hours I sat with my neck craned, body constantly shifting. To top that off, evidently, the air conditioning was on the fritz. In addition to the visual extravagances and the better-than-life sound, with all those people crammed into a Florida theater without A/C it was as if you could actually smell the Spartans as they did battle. That's one sensory stimulant I could've done without.
It took only moments outside in the chilly Tampa Bay air to cool down. My proximity to the big ass screen, however, is still very much with me. I’ve got a kink in my neck that just won’t give.
By Monday afternoon, it was so bad a co-worker took pity on me and kept giving me remedy after remedy. A vibrating neck pillow. A microwavable gym sock filled with rice (OK, it's not really a sock but has a remarkable resemblance). Finally, she just walked over and pretended she was my personal masseuse and kneaded my neck. OK, some people might find that a bit odd but you’d understand if you saw the desperation on my face as my neck pain ran north and my head started aching. And the whining. Oh, the constant whining. No wonder said co-worker did everything to fix me up.
To get the full picture of my situation that day, the first thing boss lady said to me when she came in was: “You don’t look good today!” This even with the cute outfit.
So the moral of this story is if you feel the need to see building sized men nearly in the buff, get there early. Wicked early and sit in the back, relax and enjoy the view.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Mr. Dyson: You Suck and I Mean It
I’m no domestic diva but I do like a tidy house. On a recent Monday, I was cleaning up a bit before all the girls arrived for book club when my nearly 12-year-old vacuum started wailing, reeking of burning plastic and just refusing to suck anymore without making it seem like I was torturing it. With that potpourri smelling deodorizer sprinkled all over my dining room carpet and few hours left to spare, I had to resort to breaking out my new Dust Buster to slurp up most of the white powder. I’m certain I looked ridiculous all hunched over with this hand-held device but it did the job.
A couple of days later, Hubby dragged the old Hoover to the curb for trash pick up but had a last minute change of heart. Maybe it’s the fact we got the ol’ green carpet sucker as a wedding gift. He’s a bit of a romantic after all. So he brought the vacuum back to the porch and later took it apart, attempting to resuscitate it with no real luck. When it clicked back on, it emitted the same nasty smell and refused to suck much at all.
Fast forward a couple of Sundays. We spend a good chunk of the day shopping for a new vacuum cleaner. The first vacuum cleaner you own that’s not a hand-me-down is really a sort of rite of passage into adulthood. But buy a second one and you’re clearly approaching middle age.
So anyway hubby and I sat at our computer looking for consumer reviews about vacuum cleaners. There was so much to learn. So many decisions to make. Bag or bagless? Upright or canister? HEPA filter or not? At some point Hubby picked up an ad from the Sunday paper and said, “The $79 one looks good.” I flatly told him we weren’t buying the El Cheapo and reminded him that you get what you pay for. So back to the computer we went and then off to the home improvement store.
After walking aimlessly for what seemed like miles in the warehouse type building we finally asked someone if they actually sold regular ol’ vacuums. “Why yes. I’ll take you for the long walk myself,” the sweet lady in wallpaper department said as she started leading us to the opposite side of the store.
Voila. There they were: Hoover, Bissell, Eureka, Electrolux and Dyson. Suddenly we had forgotten all we had read. Dyson, said the perky saleswoman, is the absolute best. “If I was going to buy one, it would be the Dyson.” The Dyson Absolute “Animal” D17, to be exact. With all those names it’s gotta be good – and expensive. We looked at the tag $550. WHOA! For a vacuum cleaner?
We thanked the nice lady and told her since there wasn’t a floor model we could check out we’d try another store. So off to K-mart we went and checked out El Cheapo and some slightly less cheapos and saw they were clearly trash. So we went to yet another store. This one had the Dyson floor model in all its glory. It looked like it was straight off The Jetsons set in its metallic purple and silver body. It was sleek, sexy even. But still $550. Hubby plugged it in and tried it on a sample carpet. Then he tried about six OTHER vacuums while I sat gloomily on a microwave box. “Just pick one,” I nudged. He took down a $150 or so Eureka and started to walk toward me when a store associate walked by. Hubby asked what he thought was the best vacuum. “There’s no comparison,” the tattooed young man said. “The Dyson. With all the others you might as well just pick a color. You’d buy three of the others to reach the price of the Dyson but the Dyson would outlast them all.”
We were sold. Hubby looked at the empty spot on the shelves. No Dyson Animal. “Oh, we’re all sold out,” the helpful man said.
So off to Store No. 4, the Super Target, across the parking lot. They had one left. We grabbed it. As the cashier rang it though she practically beamed. “You’re one of the lucky ones,” she said. “Are they that good?” I asked. Yep, she said, adding they can’t keep them in stock.
We loaded our $550-plus-tax carpet sucker into my Jeep and drove home, too exhausted to even try it out that night.
But the next day when I switched it on, it grabbed my dining room carpet and sucked, and sucked and sucked. Then I ran it over the living room area rug and then upstairs to the bedroom and the carpet runner in the second-floor bathroom. Man, did that Dyson suck. I was in love with a vacuum cleaner like I never could have imagined. Granted, it was a bit nauseating to see how much crap is in what you think is a relatively clean carpet, but I swear our carpets look new now. Watching the Dyson’s power was like having the equivalent to the domestic BIG O – as in OHMYGOD was my carpet that dirty? But it’s so clean now. If you think your Hoovers, your Bissells, your Eurekas are getting your carpets clean you are so very wrong. Buy a Dyson.
Mr. Dyson, your more than 5,000 prototypes and near bankruptcy was worth the effort. It was even worth the $550 out of my pocket.
And to my dear friend, who years ago purchased a $1,000-plus vacuum cleaner I say, please forgive me if I ever showed any doubt. With what I paid, I can only imagine that yours must make a grilled cheese and then clean it all up by the time you’re done vacuuming. I believe, my friend. I believe.
Writer’s note: This is not a paid endorsement... but could be. Call me Mr. Dyson.
A couple of days later, Hubby dragged the old Hoover to the curb for trash pick up but had a last minute change of heart. Maybe it’s the fact we got the ol’ green carpet sucker as a wedding gift. He’s a bit of a romantic after all. So he brought the vacuum back to the porch and later took it apart, attempting to resuscitate it with no real luck. When it clicked back on, it emitted the same nasty smell and refused to suck much at all.
Fast forward a couple of Sundays. We spend a good chunk of the day shopping for a new vacuum cleaner. The first vacuum cleaner you own that’s not a hand-me-down is really a sort of rite of passage into adulthood. But buy a second one and you’re clearly approaching middle age.
So anyway hubby and I sat at our computer looking for consumer reviews about vacuum cleaners. There was so much to learn. So many decisions to make. Bag or bagless? Upright or canister? HEPA filter or not? At some point Hubby picked up an ad from the Sunday paper and said, “The $79 one looks good.” I flatly told him we weren’t buying the El Cheapo and reminded him that you get what you pay for. So back to the computer we went and then off to the home improvement store.
After walking aimlessly for what seemed like miles in the warehouse type building we finally asked someone if they actually sold regular ol’ vacuums. “Why yes. I’ll take you for the long walk myself,” the sweet lady in wallpaper department said as she started leading us to the opposite side of the store.
Voila. There they were: Hoover, Bissell, Eureka, Electrolux and Dyson. Suddenly we had forgotten all we had read. Dyson, said the perky saleswoman, is the absolute best. “If I was going to buy one, it would be the Dyson.” The Dyson Absolute “Animal” D17, to be exact. With all those names it’s gotta be good – and expensive. We looked at the tag $550. WHOA! For a vacuum cleaner?
We thanked the nice lady and told her since there wasn’t a floor model we could check out we’d try another store. So off to K-mart we went and checked out El Cheapo and some slightly less cheapos and saw they were clearly trash. So we went to yet another store. This one had the Dyson floor model in all its glory. It looked like it was straight off The Jetsons set in its metallic purple and silver body. It was sleek, sexy even. But still $550. Hubby plugged it in and tried it on a sample carpet. Then he tried about six OTHER vacuums while I sat gloomily on a microwave box. “Just pick one,” I nudged. He took down a $150 or so Eureka and started to walk toward me when a store associate walked by. Hubby asked what he thought was the best vacuum. “There’s no comparison,” the tattooed young man said. “The Dyson. With all the others you might as well just pick a color. You’d buy three of the others to reach the price of the Dyson but the Dyson would outlast them all.”
We were sold. Hubby looked at the empty spot on the shelves. No Dyson Animal. “Oh, we’re all sold out,” the helpful man said.
So off to Store No. 4, the Super Target, across the parking lot. They had one left. We grabbed it. As the cashier rang it though she practically beamed. “You’re one of the lucky ones,” she said. “Are they that good?” I asked. Yep, she said, adding they can’t keep them in stock.
We loaded our $550-plus-tax carpet sucker into my Jeep and drove home, too exhausted to even try it out that night.
But the next day when I switched it on, it grabbed my dining room carpet and sucked, and sucked and sucked. Then I ran it over the living room area rug and then upstairs to the bedroom and the carpet runner in the second-floor bathroom. Man, did that Dyson suck. I was in love with a vacuum cleaner like I never could have imagined. Granted, it was a bit nauseating to see how much crap is in what you think is a relatively clean carpet, but I swear our carpets look new now. Watching the Dyson’s power was like having the equivalent to the domestic BIG O – as in OHMYGOD was my carpet that dirty? But it’s so clean now. If you think your Hoovers, your Bissells, your Eurekas are getting your carpets clean you are so very wrong. Buy a Dyson.
Mr. Dyson, your more than 5,000 prototypes and near bankruptcy was worth the effort. It was even worth the $550 out of my pocket.
And to my dear friend, who years ago purchased a $1,000-plus vacuum cleaner I say, please forgive me if I ever showed any doubt. With what I paid, I can only imagine that yours must make a grilled cheese and then clean it all up by the time you’re done vacuuming. I believe, my friend. I believe.
Writer’s note: This is not a paid endorsement... but could be. Call me Mr. Dyson.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
"P.O.W. " Comes Home; Criminals Rule
I’m back. Perhaps no one even noticed I was gone, but alas I was no where to be found at least in this blogosphere. The truth be told - and this might come as a shock to most of you (or the one or two faithful readers whom I’ve let down. Hi Mom.) - but I was a POW. Fear not, though. I’m OK. A bit tired, tattered and torn but I’m a survivor. I’ll tell you, it just ain’t easy being a Prisoner of Work.
Recent weeks have been crazed. Criminals in the west central Florida county I cover have been running me ragged as they run amok. We’ve had more than our typical public flashers, “rock” stars and bicycle-riding bank robbers so far this year. These first few months of 2007 have been especially full of serious crime and public safety news. Here’s an example of the busiest day to date:
Before the crack of dawn some local yahoos in this particular well-known area - where most homes can be driven, where witches are said to roam, where inbreeding isn’t just acceptable it’s the residents’ God-given right and where, I’m certain, the KKK has rallied a time or two - got in an argument and someone ended up shot. And dead. Around the same time, local sheriff’s officials finally learned the identity of the dead guy, I got a tip the major in charge of the county jails had resigned. So, as I’m juggling two relatively big breaking news stories when there’s a stabbing in the south of the county, followed by a SWAT team raid on a motel for the Signal 5 (homicide) in cops speak, then a father shoots his son before turning the gun on himself and well, I’ll spare you the details of that lil’ mess. Fortunately, for the son, his father either was a poor shot or just wanted to push his son away before he ended his own life.
I’m exhausted just thinking about it all. I didn’t single handedly conquer all of these stories, of course. A couple of my selfless colleagues lent a hand. I kept tabs on it all but you get the point of the pace we were keeping. Long on hours; short on glory. So when I got home each night too tired to move, I plopped on my couch and filled my head with mostly bad TV while drool slid down my chin. It was all I could do. Work sucked the life out of me. No blogging for me.
This is the life of a cops reporter at 36. Too old; zero energy after 6 p.m.
But the first crimes of the year should’ve aptly warned me of what 2007 would be. My favorite crime came (premature pun intended) the first week of January but others are almost as notable.
Here are my favorites so far:
Masturbating burglar. A man was caught, I’ll say RED-handed, trying to break into a mobile (PC way of saying trailer) home. He was smashing a window with one hand and stroking his MANness with the other. You just can’t make this stuff up. I couldn’t write about his act, however, since they tell me I write for a family paper.
Greasy burglar. This pain-killer addict was jonesing for a fix but he was out of fat cash. So he kept breaking into businesses by climbing onto roofs then through exhaust or air conditioning vents. He was finally caught shortly after sliding through a grease pipe at a local wing joint. In his mug shot, he’s covered in grease.
GPS burglar. A man already monitored by authorities with a GPS anklet decide to burglarize a home. Of course, with the GPS technology deputies could pinpoint exactly where he had been.
Who knew burglaries could be so exciting?
Recent weeks have been crazed. Criminals in the west central Florida county I cover have been running me ragged as they run amok. We’ve had more than our typical public flashers, “rock” stars and bicycle-riding bank robbers so far this year. These first few months of 2007 have been especially full of serious crime and public safety news. Here’s an example of the busiest day to date:
Before the crack of dawn some local yahoos in this particular well-known area - where most homes can be driven, where witches are said to roam, where inbreeding isn’t just acceptable it’s the residents’ God-given right and where, I’m certain, the KKK has rallied a time or two - got in an argument and someone ended up shot. And dead. Around the same time, local sheriff’s officials finally learned the identity of the dead guy, I got a tip the major in charge of the county jails had resigned. So, as I’m juggling two relatively big breaking news stories when there’s a stabbing in the south of the county, followed by a SWAT team raid on a motel for the Signal 5 (homicide) in cops speak, then a father shoots his son before turning the gun on himself and well, I’ll spare you the details of that lil’ mess. Fortunately, for the son, his father either was a poor shot or just wanted to push his son away before he ended his own life.
I’m exhausted just thinking about it all. I didn’t single handedly conquer all of these stories, of course. A couple of my selfless colleagues lent a hand. I kept tabs on it all but you get the point of the pace we were keeping. Long on hours; short on glory. So when I got home each night too tired to move, I plopped on my couch and filled my head with mostly bad TV while drool slid down my chin. It was all I could do. Work sucked the life out of me. No blogging for me.
This is the life of a cops reporter at 36. Too old; zero energy after 6 p.m.
But the first crimes of the year should’ve aptly warned me of what 2007 would be. My favorite crime came (premature pun intended) the first week of January but others are almost as notable.
Here are my favorites so far:
Masturbating burglar. A man was caught, I’ll say RED-handed, trying to break into a mobile (PC way of saying trailer) home. He was smashing a window with one hand and stroking his MANness with the other. You just can’t make this stuff up. I couldn’t write about his act, however, since they tell me I write for a family paper.
Greasy burglar. This pain-killer addict was jonesing for a fix but he was out of fat cash. So he kept breaking into businesses by climbing onto roofs then through exhaust or air conditioning vents. He was finally caught shortly after sliding through a grease pipe at a local wing joint. In his mug shot, he’s covered in grease.
GPS burglar. A man already monitored by authorities with a GPS anklet decide to burglarize a home. Of course, with the GPS technology deputies could pinpoint exactly where he had been.
Who knew burglaries could be so exciting?
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Cyber Stalking and Virtual Reunions
The pop-culture phenomenon known as MySpace is many things to many people. It’s a meeting place, a meat market, a sounding board, a billboard, a free commercial, a political forum and even a news reporting tool (I swear this is why I initially signed on).
Everyone who’s anyone has a MySpace page. Movie stars, rock stars, wanna-be stars, has-beens, would-bes and presidential hopefuls.
Every band from Bon Jovi (member since December 29, 2004) to the world’s greatest band ever, U2 (member since August 20, 2004), have MySpace pages. (Of course, U2 has 1.4 million “friends” while Bon Jovi only has about 98,000.)
Comedian Dane Cook has a page. So does “21 Jump Street” heartthrob turned Oscar nominated actor Johnny Depp (who by the way, has 13 tattoos – I’d love to see every one of them up close). And nowadays you can’t leave a movie theater without being bombarded with MySpace addresses for the next blockbuster.
Hillary Clinton 2008, no doubt trying to Rock the Youth Vote, has laid out her platform for the virgin voters. You can even buy campaign paraphernalia like an adorable figure-flattering pink and white baseball shirt and “Hillary the First Lady President 2008” button. (More on this in a future blog.) Yes, Barack Obama has one, too. If MySpace “friends” are any indication of who between the two will secure the Democratic nomination, Barack is blowing Hillary away with 32,326 cyber friends to her 19,666 as of this writing.
You see MySpace is everyone’s space. It’s one big cyber party.
But MySpace is also something more for the older, lesser known crowd. It’s a reunion.
I admit since signing on for the first time last year, I’ve become a bit of cyber stalker, lost on the site’s pages for hours at a time. (Remember, the first step is admitting the problem.) I, of course, don’t use it anything like the youth of today do. With the simple click of the mouse, they set up their “top friends” allowing them to quickly shun whoever they fought with last in the school hallway or give a shout out to their BFF of the moment, as well as proclaim their love for the object of their desire au jour. It’s sort of how us children of the 80s used note-passing, friendship pins and cassette mix tapes all at once.
Now, I troll the pages searching for former schoolmates. That's what I was doing when I bumped into an old friend a few weeks ago.
I clicked this guy Russ’ page. He’s a little older than me but I kinda remember him. So there I was spying on his list of friends and there he was: Todd Evans, the brother of one of my best buddies from high school. My heart sunk. Meredith and I had lost touch a couple of years ago. Though our relationship had been nearly reduced to Christmas Card Buddies, I was devastated a couple of holiday seasons ago when my card went unanswered. If Mere didn’t send a card, she always, always called around the holidays. And always we fell into a conversation that felt like we had talked the day before.
She was the kind of friend who you'd duck into a bathroom with at a high school or college party to have a deep, drunken conversation. It always went something like this: “Dude, I love you. You’re the best. You’re going to be in my wedding.”
The first time we lost touch was when my wedding invitation went unanswered. (She never got it because she moved from Seattle.) Shortly after I got hitched to the love of my life she called. Shaken, she told me she just found out I was married and she was sorry she missed the Big Day.
More than a decade later, I couldn’t find her again until I stumbled upon her brother. I sent him a message through MySpace and two weeks later he sent me Meredith’s phone number. She's getting married, he wrote.
I left Meredith a voice mail Saturday. She called me Monday. It was like we talked the day before. Her wedding is June 19th. I’m going make darn sure I’m there to see her say “I do.” Drunken Bathroom Conferences between girls are just as binding as pinkie swearing.
See, MySpace ain’t that evil.
Everyone who’s anyone has a MySpace page. Movie stars, rock stars, wanna-be stars, has-beens, would-bes and presidential hopefuls.
Every band from Bon Jovi (member since December 29, 2004) to the world’s greatest band ever, U2 (member since August 20, 2004), have MySpace pages. (Of course, U2 has 1.4 million “friends” while Bon Jovi only has about 98,000.)
Comedian Dane Cook has a page. So does “21 Jump Street” heartthrob turned Oscar nominated actor Johnny Depp (who by the way, has 13 tattoos – I’d love to see every one of them up close). And nowadays you can’t leave a movie theater without being bombarded with MySpace addresses for the next blockbuster.
Hillary Clinton 2008, no doubt trying to Rock the Youth Vote, has laid out her platform for the virgin voters. You can even buy campaign paraphernalia like an adorable figure-flattering pink and white baseball shirt and “Hillary the First Lady President 2008” button. (More on this in a future blog.) Yes, Barack Obama has one, too. If MySpace “friends” are any indication of who between the two will secure the Democratic nomination, Barack is blowing Hillary away with 32,326 cyber friends to her 19,666 as of this writing.
You see MySpace is everyone’s space. It’s one big cyber party.
But MySpace is also something more for the older, lesser known crowd. It’s a reunion.
I admit since signing on for the first time last year, I’ve become a bit of cyber stalker, lost on the site’s pages for hours at a time. (Remember, the first step is admitting the problem.) I, of course, don’t use it anything like the youth of today do. With the simple click of the mouse, they set up their “top friends” allowing them to quickly shun whoever they fought with last in the school hallway or give a shout out to their BFF of the moment, as well as proclaim their love for the object of their desire au jour. It’s sort of how us children of the 80s used note-passing, friendship pins and cassette mix tapes all at once.
Now, I troll the pages searching for former schoolmates. That's what I was doing when I bumped into an old friend a few weeks ago.
I clicked this guy Russ’ page. He’s a little older than me but I kinda remember him. So there I was spying on his list of friends and there he was: Todd Evans, the brother of one of my best buddies from high school. My heart sunk. Meredith and I had lost touch a couple of years ago. Though our relationship had been nearly reduced to Christmas Card Buddies, I was devastated a couple of holiday seasons ago when my card went unanswered. If Mere didn’t send a card, she always, always called around the holidays. And always we fell into a conversation that felt like we had talked the day before.
She was the kind of friend who you'd duck into a bathroom with at a high school or college party to have a deep, drunken conversation. It always went something like this: “Dude, I love you. You’re the best. You’re going to be in my wedding.”
The first time we lost touch was when my wedding invitation went unanswered. (She never got it because she moved from Seattle.) Shortly after I got hitched to the love of my life she called. Shaken, she told me she just found out I was married and she was sorry she missed the Big Day.
More than a decade later, I couldn’t find her again until I stumbled upon her brother. I sent him a message through MySpace and two weeks later he sent me Meredith’s phone number. She's getting married, he wrote.
I left Meredith a voice mail Saturday. She called me Monday. It was like we talked the day before. Her wedding is June 19th. I’m going make darn sure I’m there to see her say “I do.” Drunken Bathroom Conferences between girls are just as binding as pinkie swearing.
See, MySpace ain’t that evil.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
State of Confusion
I must admit I have a hard time listening to President Dubya for a 30-second sound bite, let alone nearly an hour. Whenever I see his shifty eyes or hear that voice on television, a weird, uneasy feeling washes over me. It’s the same feeling I get when I’m about to peel a Band-Aid off my skin. I want it over quick.
But there I was Tuesday night perched upon my couch awaiting one historical moment after another.
Each was less riveting than the last.
Still, this was the moment I had been waiting for since Tom Foley sat behind President Clinton during the State of the Union Address. Finally, once again, a Democrat sat in the coveted and powerful, leather chair. And this time, for the FIRST time, it was a WOMAN. Hooray! Bra burners unite.
After House Speaker Nancy Pelosi briefly introduced the President with some pleasantries sprinkled on top, it was the President’s turn to speak (Oh joy).
“And tonight, I have a high privilege and distinct honor of my own -- as the first President to begin the State of the Union message with these words: Madam Speaker.”
While Pelosi practically leaped out of her seat to meet the wild applause, I half expected to hear Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” blasting through the chamber
What you want
(oo) Baby, I got
(oo) What you need
(oo) Do you know I got it?
(oo) All I'm askin'
(oo) Is for a little respect when you come home (just a little bit)
Hey baby (just a little bit) when you get home
(just a little bit) mister (just a little bit)
After I emerged from my quick karaoke fantasy, I watched Pelosi carefully and with a smile on my face. What an achievement, I thought. What poise. What a lovely shade of green. What the heck?
As Dubya mumbled in the background (Seriously. You know most eyes were on Pelosi, he was merely background noise.), it happened. At first I thought our new Speaker was chewing gum. But I kept watching. Occasionally, it stopped. Then she did again. Only stranger.
The President said something about working across the aisle. (Hmmm, maybe I missed him tripping on the carpet on the way in to the chamber.) Then he said something about low unemployment and low inflation and oh yeah, something about higher wages (Clearly, he hasn’t studied my paycheck). But Pelosi’s face was still in the frame. Her lips moved toward the right of her face, sort of crooked.
At times, it’s true, she did smile that brilliant smile. But with each minute that passed and with each Bushism she had to digest with the world watching her, the stranger it got. Bush continued talking about this and that and something about sending 20,000 more American soldiers to their deaths in Iraq (No, he didn’t mention sending the twins.) He said something about fighting AIDS and gave obligatory props to several stand-out Americans. (By the way, how can you not LOVE the Subway hero? I think he actually mouthed “You’re the man,” to the President.)
After all that yammering by Bush, I finally figured out what was up with Pelosi. She wasn’t sitting there chewing gum. She was chewing on what Dubya was saying. Not only that, I think at times, she was actually eating her face.
My only conclusion - because I have the utmost respect for the woman - is this was the result of holding in all that booing. Perhaps it would’ve been better to let it all out. But hey, Bush did say something about conserving gas.
But there I was Tuesday night perched upon my couch awaiting one historical moment after another.
Each was less riveting than the last.
Still, this was the moment I had been waiting for since Tom Foley sat behind President Clinton during the State of the Union Address. Finally, once again, a Democrat sat in the coveted and powerful, leather chair. And this time, for the FIRST time, it was a WOMAN. Hooray! Bra burners unite.
After House Speaker Nancy Pelosi briefly introduced the President with some pleasantries sprinkled on top, it was the President’s turn to speak (Oh joy).
“And tonight, I have a high privilege and distinct honor of my own -- as the first President to begin the State of the Union message with these words: Madam Speaker.”
While Pelosi practically leaped out of her seat to meet the wild applause, I half expected to hear Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” blasting through the chamber
What you want
(oo) Baby, I got
(oo) What you need
(oo) Do you know I got it?
(oo) All I'm askin'
(oo) Is for a little respect when you come home (just a little bit)
Hey baby (just a little bit) when you get home
(just a little bit) mister (just a little bit)
After I emerged from my quick karaoke fantasy, I watched Pelosi carefully and with a smile on my face. What an achievement, I thought. What poise. What a lovely shade of green. What the heck?
As Dubya mumbled in the background (Seriously. You know most eyes were on Pelosi, he was merely background noise.), it happened. At first I thought our new Speaker was chewing gum. But I kept watching. Occasionally, it stopped. Then she did again. Only stranger.
The President said something about working across the aisle. (Hmmm, maybe I missed him tripping on the carpet on the way in to the chamber.) Then he said something about low unemployment and low inflation and oh yeah, something about higher wages (Clearly, he hasn’t studied my paycheck). But Pelosi’s face was still in the frame. Her lips moved toward the right of her face, sort of crooked.
At times, it’s true, she did smile that brilliant smile. But with each minute that passed and with each Bushism she had to digest with the world watching her, the stranger it got. Bush continued talking about this and that and something about sending 20,000 more American soldiers to their deaths in Iraq (No, he didn’t mention sending the twins.) He said something about fighting AIDS and gave obligatory props to several stand-out Americans. (By the way, how can you not LOVE the Subway hero? I think he actually mouthed “You’re the man,” to the President.)
After all that yammering by Bush, I finally figured out what was up with Pelosi. She wasn’t sitting there chewing gum. She was chewing on what Dubya was saying. Not only that, I think at times, she was actually eating her face.
My only conclusion - because I have the utmost respect for the woman - is this was the result of holding in all that booing. Perhaps it would’ve been better to let it all out. But hey, Bush did say something about conserving gas.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Hold the applause puleeze, I'm just gettin' started
Once upon a time in a land far, far away when I was say 30 pounds lighter, thousands upon thousands of dollars less in debt and able to drink like six more beers in a night than I can now (don’t get me wrong, I still puked them up the next morning), a silly college in the Northeast actually let me wax poet with my own column. I wrote about everything from my love affair with Diet Pepsi (DP for short) to more serious topics such as abortion rights vs. its use for birth control. I even got a little taste of fame.
I remember going to a party (God only knows whose) at a brownstone on Beacon Hill and overhearing a couple of fellow co-eds talking about MY COLUMN. Of course, I introduced myself and let them bask in my coolness. They said, “You’re Simply Read?” Only they pronounced “read” like present tense, rather than past or red, which is how I meant it, playing off my reddish-auburn hair and that really bad 80s’ band (I never claimed to be a genius). I corrected them, of course, with a smile, pushing my curls behind me ear with one hand and holding a keg beer in the other. They were down right giddy. “I LOVE your column,” one of them said, only more like Luhh-uve. “I read it every week.” It was amazing in a city as big as Boston I stumbled upon my only two fans. Of course I did a lot of stumbling in those days.
So, I got to thinking the other day and came up with a brilliant, though, far from original idea of starting my own blog. Why not join the millions of other boneheads who think someone actually wants to read what they write and/or actually cares what they have to say? Frankly, I don’t even care if I’m talking to myself. I do it enough anyway, just ask my husband who artfully tunes me out on a regular basis. (Just kidding, Honey. I know you’d NEVER do that.) I know this is no column but dammit I still have a lot to say. Ask anyone who knows me. The other reason is I love to write and some crazy company actually pays me to do so but there are far too many restraints to write what I want to write about and how I want to write it. Oh, and perhaps the most important reason is that I’ve got a lot of crap swirling in this tiny brain of mine that seems to stop me up daily. I’m hoping this exercise in writing will be a cathartic one.
In the spirit of always living in my past, I’m calling my blog Simply Re(a)d. Though my hair has darkened over the years (Simply Brown just really doesn’t work) I thought I’d try the same name but I’m hoping the parentheses are the key to the correct pronunciation.
This is an opportunity to use my creative license, at least the permit, and talk about things I care about or just have fun using words. I’m not sure how often I’ll post but I’ll try to at least once a week. And I’m even more uncertain where this journey will take me. Readers (wishful thinking) might learn a thing or two about me (even if they don’t want to but I’ll try to steer clear from TMI syndrome - that’s “Too Much Information” for those of you who are a little slow.) One thing I know for sure this is my playground. So grab a swing and join me. Here we go!
I remember going to a party (God only knows whose) at a brownstone on Beacon Hill and overhearing a couple of fellow co-eds talking about MY COLUMN. Of course, I introduced myself and let them bask in my coolness. They said, “You’re Simply Read?” Only they pronounced “read” like present tense, rather than past or red, which is how I meant it, playing off my reddish-auburn hair and that really bad 80s’ band (I never claimed to be a genius). I corrected them, of course, with a smile, pushing my curls behind me ear with one hand and holding a keg beer in the other. They were down right giddy. “I LOVE your column,” one of them said, only more like Luhh-uve. “I read it every week.” It was amazing in a city as big as Boston I stumbled upon my only two fans. Of course I did a lot of stumbling in those days.
So, I got to thinking the other day and came up with a brilliant, though, far from original idea of starting my own blog. Why not join the millions of other boneheads who think someone actually wants to read what they write and/or actually cares what they have to say? Frankly, I don’t even care if I’m talking to myself. I do it enough anyway, just ask my husband who artfully tunes me out on a regular basis. (Just kidding, Honey. I know you’d NEVER do that.) I know this is no column but dammit I still have a lot to say. Ask anyone who knows me. The other reason is I love to write and some crazy company actually pays me to do so but there are far too many restraints to write what I want to write about and how I want to write it. Oh, and perhaps the most important reason is that I’ve got a lot of crap swirling in this tiny brain of mine that seems to stop me up daily. I’m hoping this exercise in writing will be a cathartic one.
In the spirit of always living in my past, I’m calling my blog Simply Re(a)d. Though my hair has darkened over the years (Simply Brown just really doesn’t work) I thought I’d try the same name but I’m hoping the parentheses are the key to the correct pronunciation.
This is an opportunity to use my creative license, at least the permit, and talk about things I care about or just have fun using words. I’m not sure how often I’ll post but I’ll try to at least once a week. And I’m even more uncertain where this journey will take me. Readers (wishful thinking) might learn a thing or two about me (even if they don’t want to but I’ll try to steer clear from TMI syndrome - that’s “Too Much Information” for those of you who are a little slow.) One thing I know for sure this is my playground. So grab a swing and join me. Here we go!
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