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.

Learning to fall

Gravity is a heartless bitch. It’s true.

If you haven’t yet witnessed the spectacle of me trying to move in any given direction without tripping over myself, let me tell you, you’re missing out.

My super-fabulous, adds-four-inches-to-my-five-foot-frame wedges are not the perpetrator; we can’t pin my incessant tumbles on my choice of footwear. Oh no, my problem is much, much bigger.

Gravity.

I could be standing stock still in flat feet (that is, wearing no shoes whatsoever) and inevitably I’d still fall. I don’t know how it happens.

What can I say? Gravity loves me. It never fails to pull me down into a great, big bear hug.

These incidents are not few and far between, either. They happen daily. Sometimes hourly. Coincidentally, it happens more frequently when I try to will myself not to fall.

Earlier this year, for example, I accompanied my friend Aimee to the supermarket to pick up a sandwich for lunch. It was an excuse to get out of the office and participate in some shameless idle gossip, I’ll admit. There we were, walking down the chip aisle when – bam! – down I go. And I took a portion of the Lay’s display with me. I do blame the heels for that particular fall. And the over-waxing of the store floor, perhaps.

Another memorable spill took place at my parent’s house while I was trying to walk up the stairs to my bedroom while simultaneously talking on my cell phone. Apparently, it takes all of my concentration to ascend a staircase because four steps up and I tumbled right back down. I don’t just fall down stairs; I fall up them, too. Thank God for the carpeting.

Even standing upright poses a challenge for me. I tend to sway and sometimes, in trying to correct my body’s natural movements (however slight), I end up on my ass, or at the very least with a twisted ankle.

Quite frankly, I’m amazed I’ve never broken a bone.

I suppose I’ll give gravity just the tiniest bit of credit for that one. It pulls me down, sure, but somehow it always cushions my fall.

Writing out loud

The drawback to being a writer is the incessant need to write, to create. The more I put pen to paper (or these days, fingers to keys), the more I want to write. I have so much to say and yet somehow, I’m often at a loss when it comes to actually formulating cohesive thoughts. 

That is until today, when the most unthinkable thing happened…to me anyway. The power went out during a pretty intense thunderstorm and I was left without my connection to the real world: my trusty PowerBook G4. Well, I suppose I wasn't completely without because my Blackberry (a.k.a. my lifeline) was still working, albeit on 30 percent battery power. And the way I am with my beloved BB (that’s another story entirely!) 30 percent wasn’t likely to last long.

The thought of my potentially fleeting link to the outside world rendered me unable to process my surroundings in the moments immediately following the blackout (or was that the sudden darkness in my basement office? Who knows!). 

At any rate, that’s when it hit me… the sudden need to write.

I’m not sure what it’s like in anyone else’s head, but lately my inner voice is a constant narration – much like that of a first-person character in one of my beloved chick-lit novels (don’t judge). During my day-to-day activities I often catch myself thinking along the same lines as those characters, as though I’m telling a story. And as luck would have it, my inner narrator decided to go hog-wild right smack dab in the middle of a power outage. 

It would have been nice to have a working computer to capture it all, she thought. 

My mind went crazy. The words and thoughts and actions kept spewing forth; I couldn’t shut it off. Yet my hands were tied. I couldn’t write. 

OK, yes, I suppose I could have written – in longhand – but I learned long ago that my mind thinks a lot quicker than my hand can write and if I want to write at least semi-coherently, not to mention legibly, I need to do so with a word processor. 

Wow!  What did people do before typewriters and computers? If I was Jane Austen, forced to write my novels on loose-leaf paper by candlelight, well suffice it to say the literary world would be severely lacking right now. 

I went home and tried to take a nap, but with my mind operating in overdrive, that just wasn’t happening.  

What’s a girl to do? 

After two hours of hopelessly trying to focus my rambling mind, I grabbed a book from my coffee table and settled down to read. 

And that’s when it happened: the lights came back on. 

It was almost biblical.

And almost as sudden as the illumination of a light bulb, my creative thoughts evaporated into thin air. I had nothing of substance to write.

Oh well, there’s always next time, she thought.

Impulse buy

I form emotional attachments to everything. You name it and I’m probably head over heels about it. The most obvious example of this outrageous claim is probably my car, “Luna.” Yes, I named her. And yes, I refer to Luna as a she.

Last week, the last week of the month during which I was supposed to get Luna inspected, I was forced to break down and bring her to the garage. After digging through my glove box forever (someone tell me why I feel the need to save the menu for a restaurant located two hours away, in my glove box, no less?), I managed to find the registration which I promptly handed over to the overly talkative (read: not very verbose) mechanic who got behind the wheel and drove my baby away. 

I live in fear of the motor vehicle inspection process, mostly because my car is still relatively new and if it fails inspection, there’s going to be a very expensive reason why. I don’t want to have to call home begging for money (I’m supposed to be an adult, after all), and let’s face it, I can’t afford the cost of fixing most of what could possibly go wrong with a nice car like mine. 

My last car, “Little Blue” – which was, yes you guessed it, little and blue! – was a Geo Prizm that was the butt of most of my friends’ jokes. But Little Blue was paid off and during a time when gas was pushing $5 per gallon, was also relatively economical, so I stuck it out. 

In 2007, during an impromptu visit back home, I was seized with a burning desire to swing by the car dealership I spent the majority of my high school and college careers working for. As I pulled onto the lot, I noticed a beautiful, shiny black Ford SUV in the show room. 

“Buy me,” it whispered to me as I passed it on my way to the sales manager’s office. 

“Hey, can I take that on a test drive?” I asked Mr. Manager, pointing my thumb at Black Beauty. He handed over the keys and a dealer plate (one of the perks of working for a dealer for so long is they trust you with their new vehicles), and I was off on a joy ride. Alone. When I returned, I asked how much money he could cut off the MSRP for me. 

“You really want it?” he asked. 

I gave him the doe-eyed Bambi face, batted my lashes and said “absolutely.” He took the figures he needed to work out a payment plan and I continued ogling the fine craftsmanship before me. 

Within minutes, Mr. Manager came back to give me the bad news: “I can’t get you in this on your budget,” he said as my face fell. Then, the good news: “I can, however, get you in this one.” He indicated another new, slightly smaller silver SUV. I was sold.

Two days later, I arrived, check in hand, to turn over the keys to Little Blue and drive off in my very first brand new car. As I signed the title to the Geo over, my friend and mechanic Joey walked up to me. 

“Give me the keys to Little Blue,” he said. (Yes, even the mechanics knew I named my car.) I gave him a quizzical look, did what he said, and went back to signing my life away. When they finally handed me the keys to my new car and walked me outside, I noticed Little Blue was not where I parked him. 

“I moved it around back,” Joey said, reading my mind. “I knew if you drove off in your new car, looking at your old car in the rearview mirror, you’d probably cry and it would tarnish that whole new-car-buying experience.” 

He knew me so well. 

Last week, three years after I made what I still consider to be the biggest impulse buy ever, I stood outside the garage watching the mechanic do his rounds. As I silently willed Luna to pass, I felt a sense of nostalgia.

“You’re all set,” the mechanic said when he finished. 

“You mean she passed?” I nearly squealed. 

“Um, yes, you passed.”

I let out a sigh of relief as I forked over the inspection fee, got behind the wheel and headed back home. 

I can’t help but love my car. It’s been in my life for longer than a portion of my friends and my boyfriend combined. It’s the longest relationship I’ve had to date, and I’ve committed myself to it for at least another four years. In that respect, I suppose my attachment is more financial than emotional; but they’re still feelings, right?

Column reprinted with permission from The Journal Register newspaper.

Daddy's girl

I've been sitting at my desk all morning thinking of my dad for absolutely no reason. He just popped into my head and now I want to talk to him. Mind you, he's probably sitting at his desk at work, praying his phone doesn't ring because good God, how is it possible his (only!) daughter can have this many crises in her lifetime? For the first time ever, though, there's nothing wrong. I just have a hankering to hear his voice.

Throughout the years, my father has been the ideal man. No one on Earth could possibly come close to him, in my eyes at least. For every broken heart, every physical cut or bruise, it was Daddy Dearest whom I turned to for comfort. And through it all, despite my often-overzealous outbursts, my father would stoically listen as I cried and complained and lamented. Not once did he need to offer his pearls of wisdom — he never had to. He was smart enough to know that in my heightened emotional state, I wasn't likely to listen. He just let me cry. And cry. And cry.

A few weeks ago, I was at the lake visiting my parents when I overheard one of my aunts ask Mom about my relationship with Dad. At the time, he and I were sitting side-by-side at the picnic table, sharing chips and dip, laughing about something that at the present moment, escapes me. But during a lull in our conversation and boisterous laughter, my ever tuned ear caught my name uttered to my left, and I strained to hear what was being said.

"She's pretty close to [him] isn't she?" Auntie M. asked.
"Oh she's always been like that, she loves her father," came Mom's reply.

And there it was. She's absolutely right. I've always loved my dad.

When I was little —probably about 8 or 9 years old — I fell off the swing set in my parents' backyard and scraped my knees. It was a minor injury (one I'll bet no one remembers except me), but when I burst into tears and my mother came running to my aid, I started begging for my dad.

When I was 18 and I broke up with R., my first "real" boyfriend, I sought solace from Dad. Likewise with my second and third heartbreaks well into my 20s.

How about the time I moved out of his house to start my job as a reporter in rural Western Mass? He got multiple phone calls daily (each less intelligible than the last) about how homesick I was; what a mistake I made, etc.

Yet he took it all in stride.

He should offer a seminar somewhere so others can benefit from his wealth of knowledge. Surely my exes could have used some of his insight.

It occurs to me that at some point, I should probably call him to thank him for putting up with me these 27 years... a happy phone call, who'd have thought?

It seemed like a good idea at the time

One day, I plan to write a memoir; a tell-all that will air all my shameless, dirty little secrets in the most public format possible. Because yes, this small-town gal has had some pretty big fun in recent years. I will write if not for the general reader, then for myself, lest I forget the lessons I've learned.

In looking back at my dating history, I've realized there are too many stories that haven't been told: salacious tales that could never be printed in my family-friendly newspaper column that even my best friend has not been privy to.

I can't help but giggle at that thought. After all, this is me we're talking about here and I'm about as far from salacious as possible. But still...

The last four years of my dating life has brought to the forefront a startling revelation: I am attracted to a lot of what my friends call "badges" (to put it mildly); men who work in the law enforcement or life/property-saving professions. Yes, I am — apparently — a "Badge Bunny."

To date, the list of semi-boyfriends includes police officers, firemen, EMTs/paramedics and an emergency dispatcher thrown in there for good measure. These individuals are a far-cry from my college boyfriend (engineer) and my current (engineer/med student), although for the sake of honesty, I should probably admit that the latter used to be both a firefighter and paramedic. Clearly, I've failed in my attempt to stay away from the badge boys. I offer this argument, however: he is no longer employed in either profession, and he wasn't a member of a fire department when I met him, so I can hardly be faulted for it.

But I digress...

With each of the disastrous dates and poor judgment calls (hindsight is 20/20 and hey, each seemed like a good idea at the time!), I learned a great deal about myself. Not necessarily about what I want from my relationships; rather I now know what I don't want. It's in looking back at my relationship past that I realize how much I appreciate my relationship present and the ease and happiness that accompany it.

There's no drama, no worries and best of all, no badges in my future.

All in a tizzy

Ask anyone who knows me (or even anyone who just met me) and they'll tell you my most obvious character trait: I am a worrier.

I worry about everything and nothing and all that lies in between. I'm wound tighter than a spool of thread, from what I've been told; I'm one straw away from breaking the camel's back. Wait a minute, that may be a mixed metaphor. I'll have to worry about that later.

Today there is a noticeable lack of things to fret over (poor metaphor choices aside). As I sit on the porch of my aunt's lakeside summer home, enjoying the gloriously sunny but not too hot/humid summer weather, I suddenly realize I have not a care in my head. And with that thought, I am immediately gripped by a sudden and utterly debilitating sense of anxiousness. Yes it's true: I worry about not being worried.

I spent the vast majority of this weekend with Doc, who abandoned his study materials to placate me after a two-week absence. We didn't do much of anything, really, but the days happily flew by and now that he's gone to run some errands around Western Mass before returning to New York, I'm left to my own devices as far as relaxation goes. Book in one hand, Diet Coke in the other, I was all set to have a nice, quiet afternoon of reading and... well, that's pretty much it. Yet here I am, fifty-four pages into my novel, seized with the overpowering sense that something, somewhere is wrong.

The horror!

I have the weight of the world on my shoulders, all right.

I may be slightly anxious but at least I'm prepared when disaster strikes. Or rather, the adrenaline is already pumping when catastrophe happens and I'm ready to swing into action if necessary, before absolute panic sets in and I'm rendered completely useless.

Some people might tell me to simply stop worrying. Hey, really? Thanks! I never thought of that. While I'm at it, how about you stop breathing and tell me how life works out for you?

So I sit here with the breeze blowing my hair in every direction but the one I want my hair to fall, and I look out at the happy, care-free people floating in the lake, and it occurs to me that I'm wasting the day worrying about nothing. Not that I'm worried about it, I'm just saying...