Promotion

It only took me five years but I am officially a full-fledged editor! Well, almost.

Last month, on a random Friday, I was called into the publisher's office for a meeting. Almost immediately, my pessimistic mind began thinking of the worst and I started mentally preparing myself for how I was going to break the news to my family and friends that I had been fired. So imagine my surprise when I walk into the conference room and my boss  — the owner of the company — asked if I'd be interested in taking over the editorship of one of our papers. While I'm not quite sure what happened to the previous editor (if pressed, I'd venture a guess that he was fired) I really don't care. I have my own paper now.... with a staff! OK, so they're freelancers, not full-timers, but still...

I'm still breathless over the whole thing.

I haven't actually started at the new paper, as I'm still acting in my current role of assistant editor of the Journal, but starting Jan. 3, I'll be on my own. The new year will bring with it whole new challenges, I can't wait.

It's beginning to look a lot like... Christmas?

The holidays are coming and I can’t wait!

Last week, while shopping for some household items my boyfriend would argue I don’t need, I spotted them: Christmas trees on display, lights twinkling, beckoning me to come over for a closer look. Jolly Santas, romping reindeer and frosty snowmen adorned the shelves, looking for a home to call their own. Boxes of holiday lights were on sale (Buy one get one free!) and I was tempted to take one of everything in the aisle. Under the watchful eye of my boyfriend, however, I managed to tear myself away without actually buying anything, though not before mentally check-marking everything I wanted to go back and purchase in the coming weeks.

I love the holiday season; it’s my favorite part of the year, as is evidenced by the fact that I’ve already dug out my Christmas CDs to play in my car. I figured I’d enjoy them before the holiday season officially hits and we’re inundated with Christmas cheer that’s often too annoying to enjoy. It’s far less stressful to get an early start and, hey, I waited until after Halloween, right? 

One of my co-workers asked me recently why I’m so gung-ho about Christmas and questioned why I’m ignoring the rapidly-approaching Thanksgiving holiday. Well, the answer is simple: it’s cheaper. Sure I have to spend money on presents for my family and friends for Christmas, but given my penchant for decorating my super-small apartment, I’ve opted to ignore decorating for Thanksgiving altogether and focus instead on buying Christmas accessories. If you happen to walk into my humble abode at any time in the next few weeks, you’ll likely think I’ve lost my mind completely: the place looks like Santa Claus threw-up everywhere (how’s that for descriptive?). Stockings, tinsel, snowmen, reindeer, Santa, gingerbread men – I’ve got it all on display. What can I say? It makes me smile.

Part of the allure is the ambiance; the other part is the nostalgia. 

Growing up, I was always excited to help my parents decorate our Christmas tree (complete with Lionel train set and quaint village set up underneath) and string up lights outside. We didn’t have the most impressive display in the neighborhood, but we did a respectable job. The house always emitted a warm, welcoming glow during the month of December. Once the tree was up, I could be found basking in the luminescence with a book in one hand a mug of steaming hot chocolate in the other. In retrospect, I realize I took for granted those quiet moments, and I’d give anything to have them back.

When I moved to Monson after college, I suffered with what I can only describe as homesickness. My apartment did not feel like a home yet and I still wasn’t used to being on my own; I called my parents in tears nearly every day lamenting my decision to move so far away. To combat my loneliness and in an attempt to make Monson feel more like home, I went all out with decorating for the holidays. Mom gave me some of the items she had amassed in her collection throughout the years, which brought a piece of my family to my apartment. 

Since then, I’ve purchased my own holiday tchotchkes, which adorn every level surface of my apartment. Perhaps I’ve gone a bit too far (the number of boxes housing my decorations currently stands about a head taller than my 5-foot frame), but it does a great deal in keeping me cheerful and chipper during these first few weeks of winter-like weather. 

If pressed, I’d have to say I’m not ignoring Thanksgiving at all. The ornaments may be inspired by Christmas, but the sentiments are filled with gratitude. 

Column reprinted with permission from The Journal Register.

Splinter

Last night I was sitting on my new (old) futon, running my hand along the distressed arm of the frame when I felt it, a small, slim piece of wood burrowing into my epidermis: a splinter. Normally, my less-than-composed-when-faced-with-a-medical-emergency self would overreact out of sheer terror, but even though my heart was doing a pretty good job of keeping up the tempo of music pounding in my ears, I stayed cool.

It wasn't like I sliced my finger with a knife or anything; it was a splinter after all.

"Doc?" I kept my voice at an even tone.

"Yeah?" He was trying to sleep and not paying the slightest bit of attention to me.

"I have a sliver."

He sat up, the fog of semi-consciousness dissipating. "You what?"

I leaned forward and he took my outstretched hand, fingers splayed to reveal the foreign body -- not much bigger than the head of a needle. I tried to pick it out myself but I lacked the ability to pinch it between my manicured nails and therefore needed assistance.

Sure it wasn't quite like extracting a foreign object from deep within the cavernous human body or suturing a gaping flesh wound back together, but given he's still in med school, I figured I'd take the opportunity to teach him a lesson in medicine, however slight. Let's just hope he doesn't bill my insurance company for his time.

E-mail

The following is actual e-mail correspondence between me and my father that is just too priceless not to chronicle here..

Me: Just so you know, I'm plotting the great cat swipe of 2010. One day soon when you least expect it, I'm going to show up at your house and steal sylvester back. And in his place I'm going to leave devil kitty...aka... Little Bastard (i.e. Your cat).

He's already torn through two windows with plastic wrap on them for insulation, not to mention the sheer number of light bulbs he's sent to that great lamp in the sky. I'm not going to keep fighting this battle, after all he's not my cat (as mom keeps pointing out). What am I supposed to DO with him!? Please advise as I'm at my wit's end.....

Dad: Try fattening him up so he'll be more docile and  not so nimble, and tranquilizers... for the cat, not you! Think of it as good preparation for when you have to child-proof your home.

Lovely. Thanks for your help, Dad! 

A piece of fire history

A few weeks ago, I wrote a column for my newspaper about my grandfather, a retired acting district fire chief from Springfield, and how much I admire him. Today, I ran into a retired firefighter from Palmer who said he really enjoyed reading that column. That, in itself, was a wonderful sentiment to have heard; I love it when people can relate to what I write. Then he informed me that he was cleaning out his house recently and came across his helmet from his days on Ladder One (back before the town got its tower truck and firefighters had to actually climb the latter to access burning buildings).

"I want to give it to you," he said.

Blank stare. "What?"

"You'd appreciate it, I want you to have it," he repeated.

I couldn't believe it. Helmets are something that are typically passed down through generation. After retirement, firefighters often bestow their helmets on their sons or daughters, perhaps even their grandchildren. As ardently as I support my grandfather, I don't have possession of his helmet; my cousin Rob has it, I believe. The fact that this individual is offering to give me his helmet is... well, it's beyond words. Excited doesn't even begin to describe how I'm feeling at this moment.

10 things I learned this last week

It's been forever since I've actually put any effort into writing anything here. I'm going to rationalize it by saying that I'm a writer by profession so if I'm on vacation, I'm not allowed to write (much).

Now that I'm back at work, I've got tons to do... In lieu of writing actual sentences, I've opted to instead compile a list. Gotta ease my way back into it, after all...

So here it is... 10 things I learned this last week

1. After 18 years, I still haven't kicked my irrational fear of German shepherds.
2. Despite said fear, I still want one.
3. This election needs to be over with pronto.
4. Halloween is not just a kids' holiday.
5. I hate highways.
6. Monson really is home.
7. I have a twin, but more often than not, I feel like an only child.
8. My heart and my head just cannot seem to come to agreement on some things.
9. The temperature needs to stay at 60ish degrees. I can't handle anything much higher/lower.
10. My new maxim: I will not die wondering.

Catfight

I've been home for 24 hours and all hell has broken loose — between the cats.

Before I'd even managed to lug my belongings in from my car, my mom had pulled Oreo out of his carrier and was walking through the house cradling him to her chest, whispering how much she missed him. Because he is her cat, she reminded me almost immediately. She'll be taking him back at some point and Sylvester will come home with me. Sure Mom, whatever you say.

Within minutes of bringing Oreo upstairs to see Sylvester, the fur started flying — literally — as the monstrous Maine coon flew around the room in search of a hiding spot, furballs swirling in his wake. As Oreo tentatively approached, Sylvester flattened his ears and began a deep, guttural growl I've never heard before before moving on to a full-out hiss. (Wait a second, cats growl?!) Then, to my surprise, Oreo — my sweet, loveable, tuxedo kitten — started his own growl/hiss. Before anyone was injured, I scooped Oreo in my arms and whisked him to the relative safety of my brother's room where he'll likely remain for the duration of my "vacation." What fun.

As I write this, I can hear him skulking around upstairs, jumping from the bed to the floor to the bureau, poking around in his food dish for any morsels he may have missed during lunch. Listening to him padding around the linoleum floor, I feel slightly guilty for leaving him on his own. This is not an independent cat; he thinks he's a dog and he demands attention like it's going out of style.

Thump. Thump. Crash.

I'd better get up there before he knocks over another lamp. 

To do

I am neurotic. There, I've said it. Are you happy? I like order and control and if I don't have any (of one or both), it tends to drive me a little....crazy.

In anticipation of leaving work/my apartment to head back to my childhood home for a week, I've spent the last few days planning what to bring (and what not to bring) and making lists of things that need to be packed in advance as well as the day I leave, and the various chores I need to have completed before vacating my apartment for a week. Whew! I lose my breath just thinking about it. You see? It's madness, I tell you.

My to-do list has grown exponentially these last few days and while I've been gleefully crossing items off in my quest to have complete and total control over every aspect of the packing process, I've also been adding items (two things to do for every one thing I cross off, it seems). It's morphing into something beyond my control and it's driving me insane. It is especially nerve-wracking today since I am supposed to leave in a few short hours and I feel like there is still so much to do.

Part of the problem is that I need to call my landlord to come in while I'm gone to fix my bathroom sink (and possibly the tile on the bathroom floor), which means I need to erase all evidence of contraband from my humble little abode. No, I'm not talking about drugs here, I'm referring to my cat, Oreo. Kitty toys have already been hidden, my rug has already been vacuumed (several times in fact) to eradicate any excess kitty litter/hairballs, the food/water dishes will be packed along with his litter box, all pictures of him (and all other felines) have been removed. If you didn't know any better and you came into my place, you'd never know there was a cat in there... I hope. All is neat and tidy, even my bathroom, which I scrubbed with vigor last night.

But now that I'm all set to go, I've got mixed feelings about leaving. In the past, I've always left here to escape being lonely but now that I've got a life here and people I enjoy spending time with, I can't help but feel like I'm going to be missing out on all the fun with my friends.

*sigh*

I suppose once I leave and settle in at my parents, I'll be happy to be gone and the week will fly by way too fast, right?

That said, I'm still sure I'll miss home.

The great escape

It's been almost a year since I took any substantial period of time off work.

The last time I took a vacation was December when my then-boyfriend and I were in the midst of a (brutal) break-up and I did the only think I could think of to do at that time: packed up my belongings and ran home with my tail between my legs to seek comfort from my parents. It's almost hard to acknowledge that as a vacation, in retrospect.

While it's true that I'll only be heading back home to spend the week with my family next week, this time I'll be reading, relaxing and recharging my batteries. It's a much-needed, well-deserved break from life in Monson. As much as I love it here, I can't wait to escape.

Last night I went to the Monson town meeting and despite the fact that I was covering it for work, I found I actually enjoyed myself. (That right there is an indication that I am in desperate need of a vacation.) It was fun listening to the different points-of-view from people I've come to know very well during my four years here. Having an understanding of who these people are definitely adds a certain (entertaining) element to town meeting, that's for sure. But while I was sitting there, absorbing life in what has become my favorite small town, I felt a longing for familiarity; for what used to be home.

Dracut has a certain attraction for me. I once made the excursion cross-state (more than three hours round trip) just to get a Tiramisu from my favorite Italian restaurant, Mamas. I've ventured back home and spent hours watching the cows graze at Shaw Farm or lost amid the stacks of books at The Book Rack. And one of my good friends from high school has opened a bakery in town that I've been dying to visit for at least three months. I'm looking forward to going back and enjoying all those things that I took for granted while I lived there.

Over the last four years, I've come to regard Monson as being home, but it will never quite replace Dracut; I will always compare the two in my mind. It's great living a life of my own away from my parents and struggling to survive and all, but sometimes a girl just wants to give up the good fight and take a breather. Certainly, I'll appreciate my life here after spending a week or so there. I'll miss my friends and the comfort of my apartment, but that will just make vacation all the more worthwhile.

The list

My life is an open book...literally. Chances are, if you play even a minor part in my life, you'll one day appear in my memoirs, "It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time." Just saying...

I have been hanging my hat on the above notion lately. I am the queen of bad decisions. I can't help it; I love trouble, apparently. And the older I get, the more stupid mistakes I make. I thought you were supposed to get wiser with age? I notice I've been getting less cautious and more brazen. One day, I have a feeling my tendency to act on impulse is going to get me into trouble (big trouble in at least one case, possibly two), but... it makes life more interesting and I've taken on an "I'm not going to die wondering" approach to life these days. So far, I have to admit I kinda like it. Love it, in fact.

The other day I was scanning my bookcases for something to read when I stumbled on 2,001 Things to Do Before You Die. I perused the list (some of the ideas were too far out there, even for me) and decided I wanted to come up with my own "To Do" list, although not quite as extensive. I figure if nothing else, attaining some crazy life goals would help me along with the book-writing process...

For now, I'll start with this but don't worry, I'll create a more detailed, personal list later. Stay tuned!

Abandon ship

I've just got to come out and say it... I'm getting really irritated with Verizon's text delays lately. I'm getting ready to switch back to AT&T so I can get an iPhone 4. Don't get me wrong, I love my BlackBerry, but if there's anything I've learned about myself throughout the years, it's that I'm fickle and, well, I always want what I can't have... which at this very minute is an iPhone, and working wireless service.

For at least the last five or six days (yep, it's been going on so long that I've lost track), my text reception has been sporadic at best. I feel bad for those people I text frequently; brevity isn't my strong suit and they end up getting a back log of long-winded, convoluted messages. In retrospect, I laugh, but when I'm trying to have a conversation with someone and neither of our messages can get through, I get all red in the face and ready to toss my beloved phone out of my second-story bedroom window. Right onto the bulkhead. That will teach it for not doing what I want.

Domestic bliss

It's no secret that I lack a certain prowess in the kitchen. Perhaps if my kitchen was wider than your average hallway I might like to flit around the room with my favorite recipe book and a few Pyrex dishes filled with desserts, but my humble abode came complete with a stove smack dab in the middle of (you guessed it!) a hallway and, well, I can't be bothered to spend any length of time there.

Given this obvious lack of skills, whenever I do feel the urge to cook/bake or do anything in the kitchen that involves a hot appliance (stove/oven, toaster or coffee maker to name a few), my friends joke around about my not setting fire to the place. This joke is usually quickly followed with another joke about how I should start a fire, if, for nothing else than to get the fire department to my house and meet my future husband.

While I haven't actually started a fire in order to meet hot men, I have spent a considerable amount of time in their presence and while they're definitely up my alley, they're most definitely not husband material. At least not for me. I'm sure their wives would argue that they make perfectly acceptable husbands, but I digress.

I've got a sudden urge to bake something lately, potential risk of fire be damned. Apple crisp, brownies, cookies, cake...you name it, I wanna make it. The cleaning up process after said baking is a bit of a turnoff, however. With so little space in my kitchen, my sink leaves a little more to be desired. The bowls, pans and spoons from dinner/dessert last weekend are still waiting to be cleaned, although if you ask me, they've been "soaking" for so long they've probably cleaned themselves by now.

This sudden need for delicious scents to waft through my apartment (and not through use of scented candles) coupled with my recent redecorating project at home is starting to raise a number of red flags in my mind. What on earth is going on with me lately? Has domestic tranquility finally set in at the tender age of 27? Say it ain't so! But then I'd rather sit home with a bottle of wine, some homemade dessert and a romantic comedy than go out bar hopping with my friends.

Perhaps the world has fallen off its axis?After all, I live in Western Mass after swearing never to return after college; I'm dating someone whose profession isn't listed as one of the civil services; my apartment has never been cleaner and I appear to want nothing more than to be June Cleaver or that damn Donna Reed.

My, how things have changed.

The little things

I found it, the pièce de résistance that brings together my little redecorating project at home: a "painting" of a chocolate Labrador that looks exactly like Guinness. The artist did a superb job capturing the quizzical expression of the dog, which looks so eerily similar to my beautiful boy that I had to buy it. In doing so, I gave up the longed-for A to Z bookends I had gone to the store to buy, but sometimes you have to make sacrifices in life.

Doc said he'd hang it up for me next time he came over — right over the TV where it'll garner a significant amount of attention (from me, that is). After all, I'm forever watching television, staring in the general direction of the wall in which the picture will hang.

I'm so excited. Clearly, it's the little things that make me happy in life.

Putting things in perspective

Yesterday, I sent Doc a text message asking how work was going (he's doing a rotation in emergency medicine - ew!) and his response was: "Well I haven't killed anybody yet." Wonderful. That's what I like to hear! Rock on!

This succinct declaration made me feel slightly better about some of my job stress lately. Because while it would be terrible for a news brief or other news item not to make it into the paper, the lack of its appearance isn't going to hurt anybody, much less kill them. If I screw up it's just a tiny blip on the radar. If Doc makes an error at his job, however, somebody's life is at stake.

He's such a good boyfriend; always helping me to put things into perspective.

I can breathe deeply now... good air in, bad air out.... ahhhhhh.

Today I came into work to learn about a few mistakes in this week's paper:

1. The fire logs ran under a police log header. Oops. A minor issue; happens to the best of us.
2. A child was incorrectly identified in a photo spread. I haven't gotten this confirmed because nobody approached me directly about it, but a friend of a friend happened to mention it. Nothing I can do unless someone tells me about it. Besides, I didn't take the photo, I just ran what the correspondent provided me.
3. Three obits were left out of the paper. All three were e-mailed earlier this week when we had e-mail problems and weren't received on time to be included. Easily rectified because I can run them next week, but the funeral home director still wasn't happy and (I think) we ended up losing an ad over it. I did have the foresight to run a brief on our front page about e-mail problems so hopefully I can't be found at fault for it.

Thank you to the individuals who pointed out my faults, I truly appreciate it. Now I'd like to pose this question: Was there anything good about the paper this week? Or was my 40-hours of hell all for naught? 

I'm sure come Monday I'll hear about a whole number of other errors but I'm inclined to say "whatever" at this point. Let's be happy with the fact that there is a paper to criticize this week, huh? I put one out. Kudos to me because that was no small feat!

Now, who wants to celebrate with some wine? 

Murphy's Law

Anything that can go wrong will go wrong, that's the way it goes right?

That's the way it's been since my editor left for vacation last Thursday. On Friday morning, just as I was getting out of bed to shower and come to work, the power went out. Given that I live only a half a mile from work I assumed (correctly) that they had no electricity either. I got into work after showering by scented-candle light (ambiance and a sweet-smelling bathroom, you can't go wrong) and discovered the source of the outage was a tree that took down a pole and wires behind our building by the railroad tracks. I waited around for a good five hours before declaring the day a lost cause and going home.

Once I got home, I still had no power, so I spent the afternoon and early evening vacillating between relaxation and depression. I don't mind sitting at home alone with a few candles lit (and by a few, I mean about 20), but I've decided I can't live without my TV/DVD player. Luckily, Doc rescued me by taking me out to dinner and by the time we returned home at 9:30 p.m., power was restored.

Since I don't have Internet access at home, I spent the rest of the weekend mentally preparing myself for the week ahead, especially after losing an entire day of writing/processing materials. On Monday, I came into the office, booted up my computer, and was immediately alerted to e-mail server problems. Instead of fighting with my mail program, I tried to check my alternate e-mail, only to discover I couldn't so much as access Google. Immediately, I felt it... The waves of nausea washed over me as I tried to consider my options. What were my options? It was Monday and I had just two days to pull together an entire week's newspaper. And without e-mail, there was no paper.

Yesterday was moderately successful — I got a lot of processing/writing/editing done — if you discount the fact that I waited a good four hours to obtain one of my police logs. We can't not run our police log; it had to get done, which means I made a nuisance of myself badgering the poor emergency dispatcher until someone faxed over what I was looking for.

That brings us up to today... Wednesday/Production Day. Today marks the end of my first week in charge and I can barely look back on the last several days without wanting to vomit or cry, both of which would be completely inappropriate at my desk at work. It'll have to wait til I get home.

Just six more days of hell.

With Glee...

Let me just come out and say it right now: I am a Britney Spears fan. I love her, I really do. Ever since high school and through college, even after her mental health hiccups. I am a staunch supporter of Miss Brit.

Needless to say, I was ecstatic at the prospect of Britney Spears guest starring on Glee, which has quickly become one of my new guilty pleasures. I got into the show late in the first season, but like countless others, I fell in love with the characters/story lines and often find myself singing along with the cheeky tunes despite my obvious lack of vocal abilities. Anyway last night was hyped as the Britney episode and I made sure to block out the one-hour period in my Blackberry so as not to forget. It was everything I was hoping for and more. And now that my apartment is significantly less cluttered than it was, I was dancing and jiving my way around the living room listening to the punchy pop music. They did a pretty good job recreating Brit-Brit's videos, including Baby, One More Time and Oops I did it again.

I'd YouTube her videos while I'm trying to work this morning except I don't trust myself not to jump out of my chair start belting out "I'm a Slave 4 U." Wouldn't that be a sight to behold?

Home Sweet Home

I spent the vast majority of my weekend ensconced in my apartment in an attempt to make it feel more like home. I've come to terms with the fact that I'm not moving any time soon and after four years there, I should probably feel comfortable/happy.

Dad and Uncle Gerry brought over two six-feet-tall bookcases which I had set up with books/DVD and various tchotchkes that were previously packed away in boxes that cluttered my already tiny living space. With the addition of the bookcases though, and the subtraction of the boxes coupled with a shuffle of furniture in my living room, my claustrophobia-inducing apartment actually feels quite roomy and, moreover, I like spending time there.

This is all new for me.

Thanks to a few new vanilla-scented candles as well as a vanilla-scented oil diffuser air freshener, it smells wonderful... like I've just baked a cake, despite my lack of kitchen/baking/cooking prowess.

And in talking to one of my girlfriends today, It occurred to me that the holidays are just around the corner, which means I'll be able to set up some of my Christmas/winter decorations. I can't wait.

For the first time in a long time, I feel blissfully, comfortably happy. Suddenly, I love being a homebody.

In an instant

Yesterday, I left work with what I have come to call a "feeling of impending doom," that knot in my chest that tells me something bad is about to happen. And last night, something did.

Perhaps I've developed a sixth sense about these things given I've spent the last four years of my life working as a police reporter, but I've felt this sense of doom on at least two other occasions, and both instances ended tragically.

Last night, while waiting for the premiere of Grey's Anatomy, my fears were confirmed: I heard the local fire department get dispatched for a motor vehicle accident with possible entrapment. I grabbed a sweatshirt, found my shoes and sped off into the night, wondering what I would encounter when I arrived in the area of the crash. As I rounded a bend in the road, I saw the familiar strobing red and blue lights of the fire trucks and police cruisers. I stashed my car in a parking lot about a quarter of a mile away from the accident and jogged down towards the emergency apparatus haphazardly parked in the middle of the road, careful not to get in anybody's way.

Though I only stayed for about 15 minutes, watching the emergency crews work to pull the victims from the two cars using the Jaws of Life, I felt almost immediately the severity of the situation. I didn't speak to anyone; I stayed as far away from the crash as possible (at least as far as my camera lens would allow, given I had to get a photo for the paper), but I could still hear the frantic calls of the EMTs and paramedics who were attending to the crash victims, and their voices told me everything.

By the time I got to work this morning, I already knew the accident had claimed the life of at least two people. Two more people were seriously injured. I can't help but shudder at the knowledge and feel sad that in an instant, the lives of so many people were forever changed.

Because of my job, I often face realities some people like to ignore: death is a part of life. I've covered countless accidents and fires that resulted in fatalities and still more that caused very serious injuries, so I know all too well how fragile life really is. I've been to murder scenes and have reported on stabbings and attempted murders. I've seen a lot. We all like to think it'll never happen to us, but the reality is at some point in our life we, too, will be faced with a life-changing situation.

I could easily have been the victim in last night's crash; I drive down that road if not every day then at least several times a week. What if it was me? What if it was someone I know and love?

Last night I learned a valuable lesson at the expense of another: we are not invincible. All it takes is an instant.

Paranoia

I don't know what I have to be stressed about, but I am under such an inordinate amount of stress lately that I'm about ready to break down. It's the physiological effects I'm having a hard time dealing with — the pressure in my chest and racing heart, the dizzy spells and hot flashes, the difficulty breathing and the debilitating sense of foreboding that prevents me from doing pretty much anything other than staring blankly into space wondering when it's all going to end. I long for the day when this feeling will subside.

A couple nights ago, I was sitting on my couch reading a book, the least stressful activity I could possibly do, when I felt what I can only describe as a fluttering in my chest. It was the briefest of vibrations — less than five seconds total — but it was enough to capture my attention. It happened several more times that night, a handful of times yesterday and at least twice so far today, which makes me wonder... should I be concerned?

Doc told me I'm wound too tight and that I should cut back on my caffeine (he should talk!) and try to calm down (ok, where's my prescription for Xanax?) but it's not quite so simple. Yes, I had one fewer coffee today than yesterday (without any sugar, I should be commended), but I can't stop fretting. I can't not feel like the world's going to implode, or that something equally bad is going to happen. 

I need to take a deep breath — good air in, bad air out — and try to relax before I give myself a heart attack at the tender age of 27.

The Friday Five

1. Got an e-mail from the husband of my good friend this week to see if I would arrange a double date with him and his wife and me and Doc. Evidently I mentioned my desire to see "The Town" at work and she happened to tell him and - voila! - Weekend plans. I don't get to see my friends as often as I'd like to because they've got the responsibilities that accompany marriage including home/yard maintenance, kids, balancing work schedules, etc., so it's nice that we were able to set something up on such short notice. I love having something to look forward to.

2. My computer is making weird noises which concerns me only because it doesn't usually and deviations from the norm are typically a sign that something is amiss. Every so often, I hear this random click-type sound... although upon further inspection it's not really a "click" and I have absolutely no way of describing what it is in a way that can get me a diagnosis, short of bringing it to Apple. And if I opt for the latter option, I'm likely to be laughed out of the store because this computer is about six years old anyway and the fact that it's survived this long is nothing short of a miracle, I'm sure.

3. Guilty pleasure lately: General Hospital. I used to watch this show growing up, especially through high school, and always loved it. I stopped watching in college, partly because my favorite characters left and partly because the storylines seemed far too implausible to be believeable, even for daytime television. Lately, though, with the return of one of my favorite characters, I've made it a point to be home to watch it and over the last few weeks, I notice I've been sucked back in. The women behind the feminist movement would probably want to slap me silly for entertaining the thought of coming home to watch a cheesy soap opera. While I have, on occasion, gone back to work afterwards, for the most part I set up on the couch with my laptop or a book to enjoy the quietness of the afternoon. It's a nice way to wind down from the craziness at work.

4. It struck me yesterday: Oreo is quite possibly the neediest cat on the face of the Earth. I find I can't leave home for long periods of time without worrying that he'll be mad at me for my prolonged absence and whenever I come home, he's impatiently waiting for me and greets me with a series of head-buts as if I'm his feline momma. I planned a recent trip back to my parents' around him (I spent just 24 hours there, rationalizing that Oreo would have spent a majority of the time fast asleep on one of my softest, coziest blankets) and when I came home, he wouldn't leave me alone. When Doc is here, Oreo likes to make his presence known, too. He is often front and center, demanding attention (mostly from Doc, not really me). He's been known to curl up in a tight ball on our laps while we watch TV, purring contentedly as we absently pet his silky fur. Whenever I walk out of the room, he follows me. Whenever I lock him out of my bedroom, he sits in front of the door, pawing the doorknob, whining to come inside... He continues to meow until I open the door (which I'm sure the experts would say is the reason he whines so frequently; he knows I'm going to come to him and he'll get what he wants eventually). Last night, while watching TV, I tossed one of his favorite toys around and the more I played with him, the more he developed a love for the game of fetch. Coupled with all of his crazy antics, the sudden interest in fetch convinced me...Oreo thinks he's a dog. Cats are supposed to be fiercly independent. He's  got a sense of loyalty I find endearing.

5. Sometimes I wonder what life will be like in five years. This weekend is "Nostalgia Day" in Palmer and I find myself becoming more nostalgic about my own life as I look back on the history of the town. I can't believe I've been here for four years. I've been out of my parents' house since I was 18 and left for college. I feel like life is flying by and while I try to be an active participant in the present, I can't help but pause and try to plan my future. Five years ago, if I was told I'd be living two hours away from my hometown, just 20 minutes from where I graduated college, I'd have laughed uncontrollably. When I first moved here, I told myself it was just for a year to gain experience as a reporter. Today, I can't imagine leaving. I can't imagine not living in this small town, tucked away in a house in the middle of the woods off one of the many windy, wooded neighborhoods. I don't lack dreams; I know exactly what I want. But now, just as in five years ago, I have no idea how to go about attaining that. I suppose I should live life and enjoy what I have today without worrying about what the future will bring.

Autumn splendor

First Church of Monson, Autumn 2008

Driving on the highway this morning, I spotted a few yellowing trees along the road and it suddenly occurred to me that fall has begun its decent upon us. Needless to say, I couldn't be more thrilled about it.

Evening temperatures are hovering around the 55 degree mark, the ubiquitous sweatshirt has made its return to my closet, the scent of pumpkin-flavored coffee wafts through the office, and the colors of the leaves are starting to change. Soon, all of New England will be enveloped in the rich, vibrant hues associated with fall. I can't wait.

It's that magical time of year that brings with it hot apple cider and warm apple crisp; glowing jack-o-lanterns and pumpkin pie; sweet-smelling hay and horse-drawn carriage rides; beer and blazing bonfires; and some of the most beautiful sunsets Mother Nature has to offer. Everything about autumn is amazing.

For this all-too-brief period between summer and winter, I feel lulled into complacency and (actually!) at peace.

Vulnerabilities

I don't know how to separate my personal life from my professional life. Being a journalist is who I am; there's no getting around that. And when something happens at work, however innocuous it may seem, it's likely to also affect me personally. That's who I am.

Today, someone at work asked me about an accident I've been unsuccessful at obtaining information about from the police department. It happened last Thursday and I called several times last week and again this week (on deadline) but to no avail. Instead of worrying about it, I concentrated on the other stories I was finishing up for tomorrow's paper. But when I was unable to provide information to my curious co-worker, she said, "Fine, I'll call [the daily newspaper reporter] to find out."

I was flummoxed. I had a pretty good idea that the accident wasn't a fatal (the police would have issued a press release if that was the case), so I don't see what the big deal is. There are countless accidents in town on a daily basis — many that look worse than they actually are — and we don't cover every single incident. However, the fact that she would cast me aside so quickly and run to my competition for information stung me a little more than I would like to admit.

Say what you want about me — that I'm overly sensitive or over-emotional — but these are the attributes I possess that I feel make me a good writer. Not a great writer, certainly, but a good one. These are also the attributes that have prevented me from developing the "thick skin" journalists need in order to survive in this industry. I take it personally whenever anyone slights my paper or criticizes my writing. That said I should also admit I let it go to my head whenever the paper receives a commendation (however rare that may be).

Whenever I go anywhere with my friends in the towns I cover (and sometimes even surrounding towns) I'm introduced as "Jen from the Journal." One of my friends refers to me as "Jen Paper" and another calls me simply, "Journal Jen." I write a weekly column about my perspective on life in the community and with that column (aptly titled Journaling with Jen), my photo also runs. It’s obvious that my paper is my life and my life is my paper. I can't help it. I don't know any other way to exist. I'd be lost without my job.

The cracks in my emotional veneer are starting to show, though, and I don’t know how to stop them from getting bigger. Lately, I’ve received countless positive e-mails about different pieces I’ve written, and I’m thankful for every one, but whenever anyone criticizes me in even the slightest way, it’s all I can do to keep from bursting into tears and running home to hide under the covers. Strangers have the capacity to render me virtually incoherent with grief simply by uttering a few negative words.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately as I contemplate my future. I don’t know where I want to go from here. I can’t say for certain that I want to continue on as a newspaper reporter, however much I may enjoy it now. The job itself is fun (if you ignore the constantly pressing deadlines and the having to deal with idiots), but I need to have a purpose in life and having fun doesn’t really fit in with my lofty life goals.

Note: I’m not talking career ambitions, here. After four years of performing the same menial tasks and several (failed) attempts at advancement, I’ve decided to let go of many of my professional goals…at least for the time being. But therein lies the rub. If I don’t know how to be anyone other than Jen from the Journal, if I don’t know how to exist outside of my job, how can I ever move on from it?

I heard somewhere recently that the problem with being a deep thinker is it leaves you vulnerable to the existential crisis. I can’t help but feeling that that’s what I’m experiencing now. Who am I and where am I going? And more importantly, how am I going to get there when I’m stuck here…in a rut?

Drama, drama, drama

Jersey Shore is like a train wreck. It's terrible. And yet I can't help but keep my eyes glued to it.

WTF?!

I hate to admit it but I have become fixated on this show. Granted I hate drama in my own life, but I love watching others go through it, although some of this is far too scripted to be believable as "reality television." I mean, really. Two roommates write an anonymous note to a third roommate about Third's boyfriend sneaking around behind her back and screwing with other women. One and Two opt not to tell Three that they wrote it and all hell breaks loose in the house. Stupid, right? And yet I have to watch; I can't change the channel.

Part of it might be that watching this show makes me feel better about myself. By comparison, I have a pretty good life: friends I love, a good relationship with my boyfriend, etc. This is as close to drama as I feel like getting, thanks.

At any rate, there's not much else to do at home, so I might as well take advantage of the fact that my parents have cable here... with OnDemand. Oh yes, I'm set up in front of the tv and I have absolutely no plans of doing anything but this for the rest of the day. Lazy weekend. I love it.

Writer's Block

Now that I've got a new (read: slightly used) latop at my disposal, on which I'm supposed to write the next great American novel (hell, I'd settle for simply a novel, it doesn't need to be great at this point), I find I'm afflicted with the sickness that affects most writers at some point in their careers: writer's block.

I'm not sure I know what story I want to tell or if I have anything to say that's worth listening to and good grief! that small shred of doubt is wrecking havoc on my creativity. I've started — and promptly deleted — the beginning of three different stories. I have an idea currently swirling about my head that I have yet to tackle for fear that it, too, will turn into a dud. I feel like a failure already and I haven't even started yet.

Somebody help me out here, this is what I do for a living, right? I WRITE. So why does the thought of writing terrify me to no end?

Perhaps it's not the writing that's the problem; it's the potential for rejection. I'll admit, I'm fragile. I strive for perfection; I like commendations. If someone reads what I write and relates to it, I've done my job. If they enjoyed it so much that they feel the need to lavish me with praise, well then I've done my job well. Therefore, I dread the day I receive the form letter thanking me for my manuscript submission but alerting me to the fact that — hello! — it sucked. I simply can't take that kind of criticism.

As I write this, I can think of three or four writers whom I admire who have come out publicly to state that their breakthrough novels — the books that catapulted them onto the New York Times Bestselling list — were rejected by not one but several publishers before someone took a chance on them. It's such a classic story at this point it's almost cliche... and yet...

I can't even think of a possibility that doesn't include me publishing my book. Dare to dream, I say. (I live in a fantasy world, or haven't you noticed?)

There's just one problem... I have yet to write a book with which I'll risk rejection before making it big in the literary world.

The stress of it all may prove to be too much.

Maybe I should write about a struggling writer who longs to publish her manuscript who instead finds herself sidetracked by men and friends and pets and everything life has to offer in between hard work and smashing success...

I can see their rejection letter already:

"Dear Jennifer...We're sorry to inform you we will not be considering your manuscript at this time...or EVER, really. Frankly, your characters are underdeveloped and your plot line is too contrived. This story is unconvincing and basically unpublishable."

Really? Because it's pretty much my life at the moment...

Oh, the horror!

A firefighter’s embrace still warm to me

"We're not all fire starters," was my grandfather’s response to the arrest of five area firefighters on arson charges recently.

Grandpa, now retired, was a career firefighter in Springfield, where for three decades he worked alongside other brave men to save lives and property during some of the worst fires imaginable. He ended his career as acting district chief after working up the ranks. Our family, proud of Grandpa’s accomplishments, has photo albums full of newspaper clippings from the various fires he fought throughout the years. He put himself in harm’s way countless of times to save parents, children and pets from suffering smoke inhalation or worse, severe burns or death during some truly devastating infernos. Understanding what he went through by simply looking at an image frozen in time is impossible. You can’t truly appreciate firefighters unless you see them in action first hand. 

I’m proud of my grandfather, just as I’m proud of all my friends who currently serve their communities as firefighters. But in the days after the arrest of the five firefighters from Brimfield and Holland on charges that they intentionally set vacant homes on fire, I saw the wound they left in their destructive wake. 

I saw it on people like Grandpa.

Usually when I write about a big fire in the towns I cover, I call him. Whenever I see a union fire sticker on a motor vehicle or pass a fire truck on the road, he’s often the first person who comes to mind. I can’t think of him and not feel a surge of pride. 

When I called him last weekend to tell him about this latest story I was covering, I could hear the disappointment in his voice. 

Holland Fire Chief Paul Foster had said the alleged actions of the fire young men "gave the entire fire service a black eye." How does that old saying go: One bad apple spoils the bunch? Do we think it’s true in this case? I hope not.

Let’s not forget that these are the people who are taken away from their loved ones to save yours when there’s an emergency. A real emergency. And let’s face it, there’s no shortage of those; you only need to look within the boundaries of your small town to notice. 

From serious motor vehicle accidents to blazing fires, from carbon monoxide alarms ringing and smoke detector activations, these are the people who routinely give up of themselves for others.

I’ve been to countless fires in the Palmer/Monson area that occurred during the early morning hours when most people are tucked away for a night of rest. Many of them happen during the winter, when people seek alternative heat sources for their homes. Accidents happen and nobody is immune. And when an accident does happen, it’s the local firemen who get out of bed in the middle of the night and go, leaving their wives and children to worry about their safe return. 

"It’s a dangerous job," Grandpa said last weekend. "People think we sat around and played cards all day, and maybe to an extent that was true, but when we got a call, we’d go. And we exerted ourselves more than your average worker did in a week."

He’s absolutely right. At some point during my years as The Journal Register reporter, I covered a fire in one of my coverage towns that happened shortly after a fire in the other. I can’t remember specifically which fire or even how long ago it happened (yes, there have been that many through the years), I just remember one of my call firefighter friends saying he had been up for more than 24 hours, putting out fires in both towns (thanks to mutual aid agreements) and that he was exhausted. And yet, when his pager went off for a motor vehicle accident shortly thereafter, he was up and running, off to help yet again. That’s dedication. We should thank them for it.

Statewide, there are about 24,000 call and volunteer firefighters, not counting those individuals who, like my grandpa, make their living working full-time at a department. Let’s not let the actions of a few spoil the good work of so many. 

When it’s your family’s lives on the line, you’ll be glad to have them at your service, while their family waits patiently for their safe return.

Column reprinted with permission from The Journal Register.

The Monsonienne

I read a book recently, called The Washingtonienne, loosely based on a true story about a Capitol Hill worker who got fired from her job for posting explicit details about her sex life (with various married politicians) on her blog in 2004.

Here's an example from The Lost Washingtonienne:
"I got a raise today! Now I make $25K.
(Wasn’t that what I was making before??)
Most of my living expenses are thankfully subsidized by a few generous older gentlemen. I’m sure I am not the only one who makes money on the side this way: how can anybody live on $25K/year??"

I have to admit I was intrigued while reading this book/blog. Not necessarily because I agreed with what the author was saying (she was a bit too loose for my tastes, and that's putting it mildly), but it made me start thinking about who is reading what I'm writing, even though I'm really only writing for myself, as a way to practice writing.

To be clear, she wasn't actually fired for her blog content; rather, she was fired for "inappropriate use of senate computers," which means if she'd written it at home instead of work, she likely wouldn't have been canned. But I digress...

It also made me think about cool blog names. My friend Kristin is looking to start writing a blog again and was soliciting names on Facebook the other day. My blog name is the name of my newspaper column, Journaling with Jen, but it occurs to me that I might not want to link my blog with my work because then perhaps I could be fired for its content, even though for the most part it's benign. After reading The Washingtonienne, I've been thinking about changing the name of this blog (at least temporarily) to The Monsonienne. It has a bit of panache to it, does it not?

We'll see, I haven't decided yet...

The Velveteen Rabbit

The great search has commenced.

Following the dismal failure of the hunt for my copy of "The Velveteen Rabbit" by Margery Williams at my parents' house, recently, I've decided to take to the streets and have opened my search to include various new and used bookstores in the area. This weekend, I hit The Book Bear on Route 9 in West Brookfield and despite the sheer number of books located in that warehouse (otherwise known as Mecca), I was unsuccessful.

So I've expanded my search to include online sites, on which there are a number of copies of the book: different editions with different illustrators. Be still my heart. I might just have to order all of them.

This is where my gluttonous nature takes over. Why settle for one when I can have several?

I'd settle for any edition, really. I'm not going to be picky (even though at this point, with so many choices at my disposal, I can afford to be), but really, I'd kill for a first edition. It's reportedly worth $15,000. Not that the money means anything to me... I want the book purely for sentimental reasons. But hey, if my neurotic book collecting tendencies nets me a substantial amount of money, who am I to complain?

Going up in smoke...the end of the summer slowdown

I've been caught up in the media blitz surrounding those alleged firefighter arsonists in Brimfield/Holland. This is the big news story I've been craving all summer and yet I can't help but feel the slightest twinge of remorse when looking at the five individuals involved. They're just kids and anything I write will just contribute to the public backlash...

Found out about the whole thing last Thursday night, barely slept, and after digging for what seemed like hours for information on Friday morning, made it to court in time for their arraignment at noon. I hate covering arraignments. It's a lot of sitting around wondering what information the other media has obtained and how they got it and whether or not you can infiltrate their source to get it too. The actual arraignment itself is too much of a blur to make sense of initially -- it usually lasts under five minutes. Spent some time talking to the assistant district attorney and the state trooper assigned to the fire marshal's office before going to fight with the court clerk staff (the rudest collection of women I've ever met in my life) to get a hold of court documents before heading back to work. That was my Friday in a nutshell. I got back to the office around 1:30-2 p.m. and settled down to make sense of the whole thing so as to write about it coherently. Finished writing in about an hour. It's a tough job...

This arson thing is huge news around here. 7News and Channel 4 in Boston both picked up the story, as did the Boston Globe, which is saying something. Typically Boston news ignores Western Mass. Hell, for the most part it ignores Worcester. I can't help but feel slightly smug about the fact that my company has the story because of me and my penchant for chasing fires. As of right now, it's slated to run in three of our papers, including mine. And I've decided since it's such a big news story, I might as well capitalize on it while I can and wrote a column about it as well...

So long summer slowdown!

Ramblings

I'm in denial that it's now September, which means summer is officially over....or will be once Labor Day passes this weekend.

This has been a crazy busy week at work and I have to admit, I'm thankful for it. I didn't realize how much stress I was under this summer worrying about filling the pages of my paper with news that, well, wasn't really news. That quote about journalism being nothing more than meeting the challenge of filling space really hit home for me over the last couple months. With the beginning of school though and an increase in fire-related stories, I've had my hands full with writing (and re-writing!) and it's been glorious. I've been coming into work these last few days with a new-found sense of alacrity.

September always reminds me of how much I miss being a student, though. I loved learning and seeing my friends every day and knowing exactly what was going to happen day after day. School is the most structured I've ever been in my life and I crave structure. Re-reading that sentence makes me wonder why I ever chose a career in writing. There's nothing about this job that can be considered structured, and yet I enjoy it....immensely.

Perhaps I will work to set up my own sense of structure. Despite being in the middle of the calendar year, I see September as being a time of new beginnings. Maybe I'll capitalize on that and begin something new.

My dad recently secured a new laptop that he is going to rehab and give to me. I always told him my excuse for not tackling my dream of writing the next great American novel is that I don't have access to a computer of my own on which to do it. Now, for all intents and purposes, he's eliminated my excuse for not settling down and writing. If I give myself just an hour each day to write, I could finish a book in no time... We'll see what happens when I take possession of said computer this weekend.

In the meantime, I've challenged myself to read as much as possible. Yesterday I went to the library and came home with three "chick lit" novels. I'm already half-way through one and I can't wait to pick up the others. One of the books I rented I've already read (twice!) but this time I won't be reading it for enjoyment; it's more of a lesson in word choice, plot lines, character development, etc. We'll see how it works out for me. Doc is leaving for a camping trip with his friends for the long weekend, so I'll have ample time to read. I can't wait... I'm such a nerd.

News about town

A couple weeks ago, I was complaining about the dearth of newsworthy events happening in my towns, which meant little to actually write about. Today, I'm complaining about the opposite: too much news; not enough me.

I arrived at work this morning with a feeling of intense anxiety. My habit of creating to-do lists is helpful (in theory) at keeping track of all the stories I have to write on a weekly basis, but it proves to be a bit counter-productive when I'm continuously adding to it, thus adding to my anxiety. What's the point of writing a list to cross items off of when I'm never going to actually finish said list? It's like the Energizer bunny, it just keeps going and going and, well, you get the idea... Today, when I arrived at my desk and set up my laptop, I realized the list I had been working on before I left work Friday was more than half-completed. Only two stories remained unfinished and I had all the necessary information for them, all I had to do was write them. Oh joy! My anxiety lifted with that realization. I could relax!

Fast forward two minutes when I open my e-mail to find a message from my editor, subject line: Last minute story idea.... oh good grief, really?

Almost immediately, I felt my chest tighten and my heart rate spike. I no sooner finish writing one story that I get assigned two more. And once those two are finished, I'll likely be assigned two more....each. That's four extra stories for those of you keeping track.

They say when it rains, it pours. Well, today I'm getting drenched.

That motor vehicle fire story I wrote about last week? ... I had to rework it today when there was another motor vehicle fire in the same neighborhood days later. I took 131 photos at the first fire; for the second I'll admit I got lazy and only took 30 pictures. And last night the local fire department was dispatched for smoke in a building. I only went out of sheer curiosity, but managed to get a clear, crisp photo with "the good camera." I may enjoy following the fire department around but what I forget is that once I get these pictures, I have to A) sort through them and B) write about them. Kinda kills the fun, in retrospect.

On a lighter note, Jim Parsons won for best actor in a comedy series during the Emmys last night, which thrilled me to no end. I shrieked with joy when they announced his name. I'm not kidding, ask Doc. I'm surprised he can hear today...

Uh oh...  My editor just placed an obituary notice on my desk; I'm guessing I have to write it. See what I mean? I better type slowly, lest two more obits arrive upon its completion.

To work, to work, to work I go...

The Friday Five

1) Yesterday, I did the unthinkable: I shut off my cell phone. It's back on now, sure (was, in fact, on within five hours of my self-imposed power outage), but the fact remains... I did it. And I survived. I am a bit attached to my cell phone. I don't go anywhere without it. It's always always attached to my hand. Without it, I feel a disconnect from the world at large. No Google, no Facebook, no text? What's a girl to do? Usually, I'm all about being connected. Yesterday, though, I just wanted some space. I feel smothered by my cell phone, strange as it is to say. When I can't go more than three minutes without glancing down to check if I've received any messages, I know there's a problem... It may only have been a few hours without it, but hey, it's all about baby steps, right?

2) An editor friend at work left me a surprise yesterday after I'd left the office for the afternoon. Came back last night out of boredom (yes, when I have nothing to do at home, I drive the half-mile distance between my apartment and my office and try to at least look like the uber-busy newspaper reporter/editor I pretend to be). Upon my return, I found an envelope with my name scrawled in green highlighter...(ooohh! Intrigue!). Its contents -- a collage of photos/captions from one of the company's papers -- made my night. I've been on a crusade these last few weeks at work to clean up some of the sports' section photo captions. The lack of creativity that goes into writing them (as highlighted in the collage so thoughtfully put together for me) is a huge pet peeve of mine. Take for example these three captions...all from the same paper (yes, same issue!) in a nine-photo spread. I don't need to bother showing you the pictures, I'm sure you can figure them out for yourselves. Caption One: "Dalton steps into a big kick with his right foot." UGHHHH...Really? How about Caption Two: "Ethan steps into a kickoff with his right foot." You've got to be kidding me with this. And finally, Caption Three: "Dillion steps into a kickoff with his right foot." Wow... Bad, right? And yet, not nearly as bad as this gem, which I found in the pages of my paper this week: "[She] pumps her right arm into the air as she stands over the ball." I died a little inside when I read that one... no wonder print journalism is a dying art.

3) Started reading Jane Eyre last night. How is it possible I've managed to live these 27 years, an avid reader and English/Literature major in college, without ever reading Jane Eyre? I should probably admit I haven't read Wuthering Heights either, so clearly I've been ignoring the Bronte sisters. Unjustly, I might add. I am a big fan of female writers (probably because I aspire to be one of the greats) but even today, I feel they get treated poorly compared to their male counterparts. Think of some of the greatest women writers in history: Austin, the Bronte sisters, and Wharton to name a few... theirs are some of the most powerful stories, written in intelligent, imaginative language. Look at the content, though. If those novels were written today, they'd fall in the "Chick Lit" category, I'm sure. So why are contemporary female writers not revered like their classic female and even contemporary male counterparts? The books written by some of my favorite authors today are categorized as "beach reads," something mindless to read during summer vacations at the Cape. Yet books by the likes of Dan Brown, Dean Koontz, Jonathan Franzen or James Patterson are listed as must reads? I'm not at all implying that they can't write well, I'm just pointing out the discrepancy. I'll come out and say it: I like the chick lit novels... both the classics and contemporaries. Perhaps I'm just nerdy like that...

4) Coming off two weeks of intense writing/reporting efforts on my part for the mass-marketing editions of my newspaper, I find myself exceptionally rundown. The truthfulness of that statement hit me hard last night when I went home and passed out on the couch for a good two hours...Oreo contented himself with sleeping on the small of my back and I was too exhausted to move him. Today, I sit at work counting the hours until a respectable time at which I can head home to nap. What is going on here? I can hardly think straight I'm so tired. Exhaustion is so not conducive to good writing...

5) I suddenly have an intense craving for onion rings. I ordered some with my sub yesterday at lunch, and that didn't so much quell them as it did exacerbate them. I love onion rings lately, which is funny because at one time I couldn't stand them. And yet, I can't help but salivate a little at the thought of them. It's not even noon and I'm in the mood for fried food... Sadly, though, I just can't justify eating them for breakfast.

Where the heart is

Whenever life gets to be too much to bear or whenever work stresses me into a near-coma, I do the only thing I know how to do to get through it: I go home.

Life is starting to overwhelm me and I don't want to deal with it anymore. At least not for the time being. I want to step back, regroup and get myself back to whatever is considered "normal" for me. Usually, this means taking a week off from work, packing up some clothes and other necessities and heading to my parents' house in Eastern Mass for some R&R. Given that my last vacation from work was last December -- which I don't consider a vacation, exactly, since I just left town in order to not have to face the sudden demise of my relationship -- I'm starting to feel a little worn. And ragged.

Everything about life is wearing on me; I can't breathe. I find it difficult to think. Just getting out of bed in the morning is a challenge. I dread the thought of having to go into work every day because then I'd actually have to engage with others and frankly, I don't have the energy to try anymore.

I once told my boyfriend that the easiest way to decode my state of mind was to keep track of how often I read. If I'm devouring multiple books a week, I'm in a happy place. If I can barely crack a binding, there's something seriously wrong with my world. Guess which category I fall into today?

I haven't been to my parents house since my birthday last month; before that the last time I ventured back there was around Christmas. Maybe I went home in January or February for a weekend, but given we're at the tail end of August, that's still a considerable amount of time to stay away. I don't really want to go back, but I definitely don't want to be here anymore. I need a change of scenery. Life in a small town is great, yes, but it's a bit lonely and I can't bear the thought of being here on my own for much longer.

I still have two weeks of vacation from work to use up before the end of the year and I'm in such a bad way I don't even feel like traveling anywhere; I just want to go home. Take two weeks off and go sleep in my own bed, eat a home cooked meal every night and not have to worry about paying bills, chasing fire trucks or writing 1,000 words on deadline. I want to simply exist without all the stress that comes with living.

Why is it I feel this way now, when everything in my life is going decently (or at the very least, not badly)? Why do I suddenly feel desperate to move on? Why can't I sit back and enjoy this time of my life? My 20s are whizzing by and I can barely climb out from underneath the covers to participate in it.

I suddenly understand what Dorothy meant when she said, "There's no place like home."

For me, home is more than just where the heart is. It's where I go when I need to escape; it's a place of refuge.

If only I was home right now.

Fight or flight?

Call me paranoid, but I think there's something living in my bathroom ceiling.

I'm not really sure I can trust myself to believe that what I think I saw/heard this morning actually happened, as I do have what can be classified as an overactive imagination, however, I don't think my brain fabricated this particular incident.

While getting ready for work today, I was blow-drying my hair in the bathroom when I heard a noise above me. This, in itself, is nothing new because I can usually hear my upstairs neighbors walking around. I worried briefly that what I was hearing was the problematic pipe that once burst and dumped its entire contents of water on my floor. What if it's acting up again? Will I come home to a pool in my apartment? When I looked up, I noticed the new (read: mismatched because the water warped/damaged the old) ceiling tile was pulsating. Yes that's right, it was moving. It looked almost as though it had a heart beat...it was alive! Eek! Suddenly, the tile shifted and a 1-inch gap appeared briefly before disappearing. The tile settled back into place and all was quiet. It was as if nothing happened.

I might have brushed it aside and laughed at myself for being so easily alarmed if not for the fact that I thought I heard something rustling around up there the night before.

Far be it from me to jump to some kind of illogical conclusion here, but I'm going to go out on a limb and say those two incidents are connected. There's something up there. I just didn't stick around long enough to figure out what it is.

What in hell is it and more importantly, how did it get up there?

In order to keep myself from suffering a panic attack at the hands (or paws? or wings?) of some unknown creature, I did the only logical thing that came to mind.... I shut the bathroom door to keep the varmint in there. I only hope when I did that, I unplugged the curling iron I had been using...

On a side note, I'm having a great hair day today. But that's another story entirely.

Doggie day dreams...

I try not to dwell on the past. What's done is done, after all. But sometimes, remembering past experiences can be beneficial. Or so I'm told.

My past and my present have been colliding a lot lately... in the form of a dog; a shepherd, to be exact.

When I was nine years old, I was attacked by my neighbor's German shepherd. I remember the incident vividly in my head, despite its having happened nearly 20 years ago, and yet I still try not to think of it in too much detail. He was large and imposing (his name was Bear, and if I remember correctly, he may have been in law enforcement at one point in his life), and he had a bit of a bad temper. At nine years old, I was considerably smaller than his 100-plus pound frame and when he grabbed my leg in his jaws, he pulled me down instantly. He probably could have killed me if he wanted to. Luckily, I managed to escape.

After that, I was terrified of dogs. All dogs. My nine-year-old mind didn't discriminate breeds. If it had four legs, large incisors and barked/growled, I viewed it as my mortal enemy. Even my neighbors' teeny toy dogs terrified me. I could distinguish a shepherd from any other breed of dog based solely on its bark, and if I heard one, my heart would race and my left leg would go numb.

They say dogs can smell fear and I have no doubt I exuded fear in excess.

Fast forward 20 years and I want nothing more than a shepherd puppy, so much so that I've been dreaming of it...literally.

Last week, I called my boyfriend to tell him I dreamed we got a shepherd and that it tried to eat my hand. The dog -- who was either part wolf or named "Wolf" in my dream -- latched on to my wrist and proceeded to chomp until I awoke.

"I don't think our dog is going to eat you," Doc said simply by way of response when I told him.

Given it wouldn't be the first time a dog saw me as its dinner, I thought maybe that was God's way of telling me I shouldn't get a shepherd. The universe was telling me to stay away. Maybe that's one breed of dog that's just not for me; bad things happen in their presence, after all.

But last night, while visiting with some friends I met a shepherd who made me reconsider that cosmic ban. This dog -- all white with the largest paws I've ever seen on a domesticated animal -- was so beautiful and so well-behaved that I wished I could take him home with me.

For as much as I've conquered my fear of dogs (and to be fair, there are still some lingering effects: the first time my Labrador started barking at some threat or other he sensed outside the house when we were home alone, I remember my heart rate spiked and I was afraid to go near him, lest he turn his anger on me), I wonder if I'll ever be able to quell my fear completely?

Only time will tell, I suppose. Until then, I'll continue dreaming of the perfect shepherd (a companion for the Bernese Mountain Dog puppy Doc already agreed to). Preferably one not named after a carnivore.

My next dog...

A girl can dream, can't she?

Our moods change with the seasons

Summer is winding down for all those gearing up to head back to school soon, but not for me. It may be mid-August, but given that my family’s seasonal lake house will be open for another couple of months at least, I’m not really all that heartbroken at the prospect of “summer vacation” being over. This is especially true since I haven’t really had a summer vacation this year, what with being a member of the real world and having to go into work every day.

With the exception of the slight increase in traffic due to bus transportation during school hours, I’ll be able to maintain the status quo, at least for the foreseeable future. Life will continue to saunter along its current blistering-thanks-to-the-endless-sun path.

With all the back to school buzz going on, though, I’ve started thinking about the passing of time, the changing of seasons.

I’m a big fan of spring and summer and everything both have to offer, most notably, hours upon hours of gloriously warm sunshine. That said; I have a confession to make.

I miss winter. I miss the snow. I miss being able to curl up on my couch with my favorite blanket, a book and a mug of hot chocolate. Snow: it’s the perfect excuse to be anti-social and hibernate in my apartment.

Sure there are things I hate about winter – the biting wind I could do without, and sometimes Mother Nature’s temper slaps us with a snowstorm at the most inopportune times – yet, I miss it: the beauty, the peacefulness, the look of downtown Monson after fresh snow has fallen and the plows have yet to take to the roadways.

Everything seems to slow down in the winter. If there were any flowers in bloom, winter would offer the perfect excuse to stop and smell the roses. 

Perhaps my current feelings stem from the incessant humidity we’ve experienced during the last couple weeks. I’m not a fan of the often-oppressive heat. I like to breathe comfortably, after all.

Spring and autumn are my favorite seasons. I love the cool, brisk mornings and both are beautiful in their own right: spring for its new growth, and fall for its colors. But lately, there’s something about winter that has me pining. 

Before I acquired my four-wheel-drive vehicle, I hated winter. Tooling around in a tiny car that wasn’t equipped to handle the slick road conditions was not my idea of fun. With my sport utility, I can roam the winding back-woods streets of Monson with relative ease and safety. I have a newfound sense of freedom as well as an appreciation for the wonders of nature. 

As I write this, I look up and see the afternoon sunlight billowing between the blinds and I feel slightly guilty for wishing away the beautiful weather. After all, I’ll be the first person to lament the loss of summer when the cold, hard, grey winter months are upon us. 

If I’ve learned anything from living in New England, it’s that weather can change in an instant. How does that saying go? “If you don’t like the weather in New England, wait a minute.” It’s true. Perhaps that is Mother Nature’s way of teaching us to appreciate what we’ve got; we never know when we’ll lose it or worse, if/when we’ll get it back. 

On that note, maybe I’ll curb my craving for winter for the time being and soak up as much of the sunshine as I can, while I can. 

It’s going to be a long, grey winter, after all. I can’t wait ‘til next spring.

Column reprinted with permission from The Journal Register newspaper.

Repressed rage

It's come to my attention that I have some serious repressed anger issues.

I was sitting at work this morning in my quiet, empty corner — I like to come in when no one is here because it gives me ample opportunity to scour the Internet with little distractions — when suddenly I heard our sports editor ambling his way down the back staircase (very loudly, I might add). I can always tell it's him — right from that very top step — so I did what any girl hoping to stave off unwanted conversation would do: picked up my work phone and dialed my friend Jenn's extension. After five minutes of mindless chitchat, I put the receiver back on its cradle, picked up my iPod earbuds and settled in to work.

Not two seconds after I got off the phone, though, Sporty turned around and began what I can only imagine is his version of flirting: giggling like a school girl while trying to expel coherent words amid sudden, heavy gasps. Every morning it's the same routine, going on four years now.

What's a girl to do?

Because Sporty sits behind me facing the opposite direction, when he starts in on this daily barrage, I have the luxury of a) rolling my eyes while laughing internally and responding in short, monosyllabic syllables or b) pretending I'm rocking out to iPod and ignoring him altogether.

Lately, though, I find myself getting more and more irritated with him. (If you saw/heard him, you'd understand, I'm really not this big of a bitch.) He's like a five-year-old trapped in a 31-year-old's body, I swear. At first I felt sympathy for him because he seemed innocent enough — like a giant oaf — but don't let that feigned naivete fool you. He's up to something. I just haven't figured out what yet.

So I sit here, day after day, playing the same scene over and over (and over ... and it's the same thing in reverse when I leave for the day!) and I can't help but get irritated. I can actually feel my blood boiling, which is a feat in itself because the air conditioner down here keeps the office so cold, penguins could live comfortably, but I digress.

I am, or at least I try to be, a nice girl. My mother raised me to be polite and amenable, after all. So I slap on a smile and try to ignore the rising ire in my chest, though with each passing day, it's getting harder and harder to stomach.

The other editors at my company think I'm overreacting. They think he's harmless and cute (and what's worse, they actually solicit information from him whereas I avoid his comments like the plague). They don't have to spend 8 hours a day, 5 days a week in his presence. I'm sure if they did, they'd resort to fake phone calls and earphones too. I feel like I'm ready to snap...and I would if I didn't exercise so much self-restraint.

Like I said.... I'm repressed.

'You're one of those?'

"This has kind of a weird texture to it, huh?" Dad and I were having dinner at the lake on Friday, eating leftovers from Mom's birthday dinner at some fancy Italian restaurant the night before.

"Yeah," he replied. "It's veal and eggplant Parmesan."

I stopped forking food into my mouth and gave him a blank stare. I thought it was pasta with meatballs.

"What? You fed me veal?"

"Yeah, what's wrong with that?"

"Dad, I don't eat veal."

"Why not? What are you, one of those?" He asked incredulously.

"No, I eat meat, but I don't eat veal," I retorted.

"Well you do now, what do you think?"

I went on to say I couldn't believe he gave me veal, and thanks a lot for telling me BEFORE I ate it, to which he replied with something along the lines of he wasn't holding a gun to my head and I didn't have to eat it.

The next day, Saturday, I went to a birthday party that featured a large seafood spread, including lobsters and steamers. I'm not opposed to eating lobster (or any other kind of seafood) but I don't feel the need to see my food alive and kicking before I eat it. The same goes for any kind of meat products. If I can look into its eyes I can't proceed to eat it, that's just how it is with me.

A few years ago, I went to a farm in Chichester, N.H. with a friend of mine a few days before a scheduled pig roast. There, I encountered a large pen filled with a litter of pigs just like Wilbur from Charlotte's Web. They were so cute, I gushed to Chris on the ride home. Two days later, when we returned to that tiny hamlet in New Hampshire for the roast, there was Wilbur, on the spit. I couldn't bring myself to eat him.

When Dad inquired as to why I wouldn't eat veal when I'd eat steak, I quickly responded with: "There's no reason to birth a cow to immediately kill it, that's just mean."

His response? "They don't kill it that soon, you know."

Oh wow, really? They give it a day or two to enjoy life in a cramped pen before butchering it? Isn't that nice? Wow...thanks for that.

The only reason I'm not a full-fledged vegetarian is that I'm not personally bludgeoning the cows to death in order to eat them. I'm usually not even the one cooking, so I really don't have to think too much about it. I do feel enormous guilt for being a carnivore whenever I encounter a chicken, however. One of my ex-boyfriends had a chicken for a period of time and I couldn't bring myself to eat any kind of poultry the entire time I knew her...the chicken, that is.

In order to suppress the guilt, I have made the argument that by the time these animals arrive at the supermarket, they're already dead and if I don't eat them, they'll have died in vain. We can't have that now, can we? Right, so that's my logic.

In retrospect, I vaguely remember telling my father I'll eat anything as long as I don't know what it is that I'm eating. I guess he took my words to heart. Next time I schedule a dinner date with Dad, I'm going to have to approve the menu in advance.

Relationship hypochondria

Despite the fact that I'm supposed to be on early deadline to prepare for two of the biggest issues of my paper for the entire year, I've found myself trolling websites out of sheer boredom while waiting for inspiration to strike. In doing so I stumbled on a blog community all about being a doctor's wife. And from that site, I discovered a forum dedicated to medical spouses.

At first, I read these with mild fascination; I've been dating a med student for only a few months but I've been forewarned of what to expect in the future. When we first started dating, Doc was gracious enough to send me a how-to guide written by Marissa Kristal appropriately titled "How to Date a Med Student." I've got a copy of it taped to my refrigerator at home and yes, I refer to it often (mostly for the it's-funny-cause-it's-true laugh I get from it). In her guide, rule number one states: don't expect to see them ever and I'll sadly admit it rang true right from the beginning. But delving into the websites dedicated to medical spouses has started to turn my stomach and mild amusement has quickly turned to outright horror.

For example, take this piece that I found on the International Medical Spouse Network. Granted I have no right to complain about feeling invisible because so far, Doc has given me more than a fair amount of his attention, despite his being nearly three hours away and busy with his last year of med school/various hospital rotations, etc. But omigod, is this really what I have to look forward to? [[Insert gasp of horror here.]]

Or what about this one? I must not be the smart one in my relationship; I had to read it twice for it to actually sink in. I am aware that of the two of us, I'm the one with what would be considered "the less important career" but I don't think I wanted to come out and admit it just yet. I wanted to win a Pulitzer Prize first, that way I'd have a foundation to make a counter argument. I'd have settled for a New England Press and Newspaper Association Award, to be honest. Anything to lend some kind of credibility to my slave labor.

I'm well-schooled in the art of dating someone whose career revolves around helping others. I'm used to pagers going off and having my significant other run off to one emergency or another. It's par for the course when you date anyone in the police/fire/ems profession, and I've lived that life (off and on) for the last three years. As such, I'm probably better prepared to date someone in the medical profession than most.

And OK, yes, perhaps I'm looking a little too far ahead here (though you can ever be too prepared for something); after all I'm hardly a spouse, I'm just his girlfriend. Reading these blogs and diagnosing potential future relationship problems is probably almost as bad as being a hypochondriac in med school. Then again, shouldn't you be prepared for battle before you enter a war? (Did I just compare my relationship to a war? I probably don't want to go there...)

Maybe I'll wait a bit and see how things progress, then I'll have one of two options: start a new blog titled So I Landed a Doctor, or marry someone in finance.

Much ado about nothing

When I'm running around like a madwoman trying to complete my story list by deadline, spend some time with friends or visit with Mom and Dad at the lake, the only thing I want is a moment to myself to just breathe. I'm constantly moving at a frantic pace trying to accomplish all the menial things I feel need to get done (so I can cross them off my ever-expanding to-do list) and while doing so, all I can dream about is a day with no worries or responsibilities, when I can just relax and do absolutely nothing.

Well there I was this morning with nothing to do but sit on the couch with a book and/or my tv and DVD remotes, completely, totally, utterly alone...and I hated it. I had nothing to do.

Naturally it took me only a few minutes to do the only thing I could think of at a time like this: come into the office. Not because I feel a pressing need to get any writing done; I just wanted to get out of the house. It's not even noon on a Sunday and I'm sitting at my desk in the newsroom listening to the hum of the prepress machines upstairs. The newsroom is empty, except for myself, and I have to admit I like it. I'm just as alone here as I would be in my apartment but it doesn't feel quite as empty here.

I'll give myself 'til I finish this cup of coffee then perhaps I'll venture home, pull a few DVDs from my collection, and settle in for an afternoon of blissful nothingness. Until I get bored with being alone, of course. Then maybe I'll be back.

BostonMed

My favorite summer-series TV show is over and I'm at a complete loss as to what to do with myself now.

Last night, the finale of BostonMed featured the first face transplant in New England (only the second in the country!) at Brigham and Women's Hospital, and I was all but glued to my television screen. Let me spell it out for you: R-I-V-I-T-E-D!

It was amazing.

That show is absolutely one of my favorite on television ever and I'm completely bummed that ABC only ran eight episodes. It was like Grey's Anatomy in real life...in Boston, no less! The day it premiered I had spent in Boston at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute with a friend, just a hop, skip and a jump away from Brigham. I was in awe, I won't lie.

My boyfriend always pokes fun at my Grey's Anatomy obsession, given (as he says) it's completely fake. I'll concede on that one; it is pretty hard to stomach at times. But BostonMed was reality TV in its rawest form. I was completely transfixed. It gave me something to look forward to when he wasn't around...and then it gave me an excuse to text/call him to ask what exactly was going on, medically speaking, because let's face it, I'm clueless.

I suppose I was aware that it would end eventually, but it I feel like I was ambushed. Doesn't ABC usually advertise season/series finales? It wasn't until about halfway through the episode last night that I realized another show was being advertised for the Thursday at 10 p.m. time slot and I realized the end was near.

Way to veil the truth, ABC. Thanks a lot for giving me something to love and unceremoniously taking it away. I appreciate it.

Now what?

Summer slowdown

I have lost all motivation to write anything these days. That's not good for someone who makes her living doing just that.

The "summer slowdown" as I like to call it, is hitting me hard. There's nothing newsworthy going on in my towns. With schools closed and many town officials high-tailing it off on vacations, there's a noticeable lack of, well, news. It's driving me up a wall.

I thrive on breaking news. Love it, actually. Whenever disaster or calamity strikes, I'm there, running on adrenaline, capturing it all on film/in my notebook. Lately, though, there hasn't been much in the way of breaking news. Sure there was a home invasion/murder that I assisted with a few weeks back (that story appeared in another paper), and the tractor-trailer vs. car accident that I got photos of last week (front page, above the fold!), but other than that, I haven't written about much except charity bike/road races and various artistic displays around town.

Come on, now! Something's gotta give!

If news doesn't pick up (in a big way!) soon, the next two weeks are going to be incredibly challenging. Our paper is in the midst of its annual subscription drive and we're direct-mailing issues to every residence in five towns to generate interest and hopefully increase our circulation. This is not the time to be lacking in inspirational/hard-hitting stories.

Animal moratorium

So today, I was issued a cease and desist notice. My boyfriend, Doc, gave me strict orders to follow and I can't break them; you're not supposed to go against doctor's orders, after all. From here on out, I'm forbidden from bringing home any pets. At least until further notice.

No more cute and cuddly kittens. No more soulful-looking dogs. Not even so much as a goldfish. What's a one-woman-animal-rescue-organization to do?

I suppose this is my fault, to a degree. I do have a bleeding heart when it comes to animals, and if I could, I'd have a whole menagerie of pets right there in my 15x15-foot living room. Dogs, cats, rabbits... you name it and I'd probably have a litter if I could.

I do want another dog someday, but given my current living situation, I am well aware I can't actually have one. Yet. That doesn't stop the incessant daydreaming though; doesn't prevent me from scouring pet magazines to find the perfect mug. I can't help it, my mother brought me up as an animal lover. The fact that I can't afford to feed myself but would be responsible for feeding a dog that could eat its weight in Kibble at each feeding doesn't hinder my desires.

Tonight, during my usual 10-minute phone call to Doc (during which I all but forced him to take a study break to chat about nothing of substance), the conversation invariably turned to dogs... He acquiesced when I said I wanted a dog: a big one (albeit one that starts out as a big bundle of furry puppy). He even said he'd mull over one of the half-dozen potential names I threw out for consideration. I think he drew the line when I told him I'd just have to get one dog for each of the fabulous names I'd chosen. Because why pick just one when when there could be multiple?

There, in a matter of minutes, I managed to adopt six monstrous dogs...in theory, and even Doc, Mr.-I-Like-My-Girlfriend's-Dog-More-Than-My-Girlfriend, had had enough of the animal talk. 

That's when he issued the death blow: no more pets.

"I'm determined to keep this under control," he said.

Thankfully, he can't prevent me from keeping the pets I already own. Sylvester, my nearly-20-pound Maine Coon and Oreo, my 10-pound shelter kitty, both of whom he is allergic to, are safe. Whew. I already told him I wouldn't hesitate to break off a relationship with someone who didn't accept my cats, and despite his allergies he hasn't forced them from my life. At least not yet.

But until such time as I become a best selling book author, find a new (i.e. higher-paying job), or buy/rent a large house that I can actually afford, I can't so much as consider expanding my furry family.

Maybe I'll take up pet photography as a hobby and surround myself with other peoples' pets. Just as long as I don't accidentally bring one home.