For the love of all that is good and holy…

Ring bearer, when referring to a young child who carries the rings in your wedding is NOT capitalized.

Argh!

In this newest job I’ve taken on at work, I’ve had to learn to suffer through the writing of others and some of the more annoying aspects come through wedding announcements and obituaries. The words people capitalize is mind boggling.

There are some notices I receive that Have Every other Word capitalized, like Every other Word is more important than Another word. There is no Rhyme or Reason to it, the words are Simple capitalized. And SOMETIMES people will write certain words in all CAPS, for no apparent reason. Like this one woman who sends me announcements each week for a concert held at her church and when providing the directions to the church she writes: Turn RIGHT on this road. Then turn LEFT on the second street on your RIGHT.

What?! Argh!

It is ENOUGH to Drive a person BATTY, I TELL Ya’. (Oooh…there is another one of those “catch phrases” that needs to go away. Along with “I tell ya’” we need to rid the world of “Tell me about it..” as a way to reply to a comment you could really care less about.)

Another thing about this latest job, is the little old ladies who call and say, “I’ve been calling the paper for the past 15 years and I’ve never…”

Oh lady, give it a rest already. I’m sure at least ONCE you have.

Are you packin’ lady?

Our courthouse has a metal detector and x-ray machine. Yes, the Middle of Nowhere even needs metal detectors. Your purse, bag, suitcase, whatever, goes on a conveyor belt and is sucked through a tube and x-rayed while two sheriff’s deputies look on and also watch a screen to see if any blue or green, or some other color pops up on your image as you walk through the detector, which would indicate you are packing. (For those older folks out there – packing means “carrying a weapon.” I know this because I am not old. More on that later.)

Usually I zoom through there with flying colors. The deputies know me. They should by now as often as I’ve been in that courthouse – for the last six months it has been once a week covering Small County meetings. They seem to know I’m not someone out to stab or shoot anyone and let me go.

Not Tuesday. On Tuesday I went to the courthouse for a meeting with Small County Officials. I put my purse on the conveyor belt and walked through. The one deputy said “You’re good, Lisa. Go on through.”

The other deputy – the one looking at the screen – said “Are you carrying a jack knife in your pocket book? Or something that looks like one?”

Uh. No. Look at me. I’m a hobbit-resembling 30-year old mother with no tattoos or piercings on odd areas of my body. What use would I have for a jack knife?

“Maybe it’s my cell phone,” I said.

“I don’t think so,” the deputy said frowning at the silhouette on the screen. I leaned in closer for a look. My purse is packed with all kinds of odd things – I’m a woman. I’m a mother. I’m an unorganized pack rat.

“Ummmm….I’m not sure,” I pulled open the zipper, rather reluctant for the deputy to see the inside of my cluttered purse. I pulled out my folded up glasses. “Could this be it?”

“No. Don’t think so,” the deputy said solemnly. “Take out your cell phone and we’ll run it through again.

I did. He did. He seemed satisfied the second time around that I was not attempting to smuggle some kind of weapon into the courthouse.

“Your good,” he said.

I thought: “Well, duh. I’m just a boring reporter. I’m not here to kill anyone or anything – except any dreams I might have had of becoming a “real journalist” someday.

Feeling the tension waiting for court to start

I hate court assignments, those assignments where I have to sit with the family members of the accused, scratching in a notebook while they glare at me, knowing full well I’m a member of the media, which “demonized” their loved one.

On this day it was a preliminary hearing for a guy whose brother had stabbed and almost killed another man. The accused stabbers nickname is “Rat.” How fitting. He stabbed the other man three times in the back and tried to say he wasn’t trying to kill him. Yeah right. Why did he stab him? It is a fairly confusing story. Let’s just say the stabee thought the stabber had shot a BB gun at the stabee’s uncle and came to confront him.

Anyhow, Rat’s brother, who we’ll call Billy Bob, because that is the most redneck name ever (except for Jim Bob), was going before the local judge to determine if there was enough evidence to send him to trial for helping his brother hide the would-be murder weapon and the BB gun allegedly used to shoot at the uncle of the man who was stabbed.

The victim, despite losing a portion of his liver, suffering a collapsed lung and having his kidney lacerated, which left him peeing in a bag for a good long time, survived the attack.

And here I sat in a very small waiting room outside the court, face-to-face with people who hate the place I work for because we had the audacity to repeat information provided to us from the police. In this particular case information came out that the accused stabber . . . ummmm… well, we will use the word the police did in their report — defecated himself. It wasn’t my doing. I didn’t write it. I kept it out of the original story because I didn’t feel the information was pertinent for the story.

During “Rat’s” preliminary hearing, this information came out again and another reporter wrote about the defecation incident. Don’t know why. Don’t care why. None of my business. The only problem now was that I was going to have to deal with the consequences by having family members of this “Rat” scowl at me while we waited for the hearing to start. Sometimes family members aren’t sure if I’m from the paper. The notebook is usually a give away. Usually they don’t say anything to me. They just glare and scowl and whisper obscenities amongst themselves. It’s a real relaxed situation. Ha. Ha.

I did have a family member talk to me once. She told me how upset she had been having her grandsons’ photos on the front page in handcuffs. Both of her grandsons had been accused of setting fire to several abandoned buildings, sending volunteer fire fighters flying out and risking their lives for pretty much nothing. And she was offended. If you ask me, having their photos in the paper were the least of these idiots worries.

I bit my tongue and told the lady I hadn’t taken the photo and I had made the decision to put the photo on the front. Our conversation ended rather quickly after that.

So, here I waited Tuesday morning, in a court waiting room with scowling family members, all of us waiting to see if this case will go before the judge or be waived on to a higher court. Either way, I don’t care.

In another month I hope to be out of this job, in another facet of this newspaper world where I’ll be scowled and grumbled at by people whose wedding announcement didn’t go in on the day they wanted it — instead of elderly grandmother’s of accused arsonists.

___

Want some real laughs? GO HERE NOW!

The ‘aye’ guy and the repetitive reporter

This was originally published here last week.

————

One of my responsibilities at Small Town Newspaper is covering our county government meeting once a week. This is about a 20 minute drive from where I work. Most of the time the drive isn’t worth it. OK. Pretty much all of the time it isn’t worth it.

Every once in awhile a funny story come out of the meeting.

Recently an older man has been attending the meetings. I don’t know him from anyone. I’m imagining he is a very nice man. However, he has an annoying habit that only one (that would be me) who is completely burned out on their job would be bothered by.

He sits in the back of the meeting room and seconds before the board members say “Aye” after the statement “All those in favor say ‘aye’” he says “Aye” in a soft, yet still audible voice.

He’s not on the board mind you.

He’s not in county government at all that I know of.

I have yet to have the urge to whip around and tell the man to shut up. After all, it is his business if he wants to say “aye” when he doesn’t need to. I do however have to resist the urge to giggle at each “aye” he utters. I have no idea why I have this urge. Just do.

As if this occurrence isn’t giggle-inducing enough, there is a reporter who attends the meeting from our competitive newspaper who makes you want to laugh and cry and scream all at the same time.

First the physical appearance: About 6,1, dark hair, glasses that always fall off his nose and he has to push up, super skinny, big baggy dress shirt he is always tucking into his big baggy pants, head down most of the time, and an attempt to not make eye contact most of the time.

I used to work with him. I almost jumped out of a second story window once to get away from him. Fortunately (or unfortunately, whichever way you want to look at it) the window was painted shut.

This particular reporter, who we will call Repetitive Reporter, repeats himself maybe ten times in a row, rewording his statement or question a different way each time. Regardless of the rewording, it is STILL THE SAME QUESTION.

I’m not trying to make fun of him. He is a very nice guy and very bright. He simply has a social tick that causes him to be unsure of what he has just heard so he asks the same question maybe four or five times to be sure he’s heard it right. In other words, he is annoying.

Those people who he interviews are even called five or six times in a row and asked the same question over and over, yet in a different way, to be sure it is answered the same way. Repetitive Reporter could be called thorough, but could also be called crazy, annoying, off-putting, and obnoxious.

Question and answer sessions with him go something like this:

Middle of Nowhere County Official: “We have decided to bid out the second phase of this project to see how much the total project will cost us.”

Repetitive Reporter: “So what you are saying is you will be bidding out the second phase of this project to see how much the total project will cost us.”

Middle of Nowhere County Official: “Yes. We have decided to bid out the second phase of this project to see how much the total project will cost us.”

Repetitive Reporter: “In order to see how much the total project will cost, you are bidding out the second phase. Right?”

Middle of Nowhere County Official: (If they already know Repetitive Reporter and are used to him) “Yes, Reporter Nerd, you have that correct. Don’t worry. It’s right.” (If they don’t know him) “Yes, Repetitive Reporter. You got it. OK? Don’t ask me again.”

I deal with Repetitive Reporter weekly and he makes half hour meetings hour meetings. Many times he makes you want to shove a sowing needle through your eye socket just to make it stoooop.

This week Middle of Nowhere County Official asked Repetitive Reporter and I if we would like to see the progress in the county courthouse dome restoration project. We say “sure,” and proceed to the elevator where we are told by Middle of Nowhere County Official that we will have to climb a tiny little ladder to get to where the work is being done.

He informs me, very politely, that he’d like me to go last since I am wearing a skirt. I never wear skirts. On this day I wore a skirt because all my pants were dirty.

Repetitive Reporter proceeds to creep me out by laughing like one of those stereotypical nerds on some 80s sitcom (Family Matters for example) and saying, “You can go ahead of me…*snort* *snort* I won’t look. *snort* *snort*.”

Middle of Nowhere County Official pauses, pushes the button on the elevator and says: “And we’re going to end the conversation right there.”

And we did. Thank God.

———

Check out Humor-Blogs for funnier stories.

It’s time to get out

There was a time when I would ask 50 different questions during an interview for the paper.

There was a time when I would think of all the interesting ways I could take a photo for the next days paper.

There was a time when I actually cared what board members were talking about at a meeting.

There was a time when I wouldn’t think, while the man was talking about the charity food program for underprivileged children: “If their parents would buy food for them instead of beer and cigarettes the rest of the community wouldn’t have to feed these kids, don’t ya’ think?”

There was a time I would get back to the office and eagerly write my stories, excited to be “contributing to the community.”

There was a time I’d rather be writing for the paper than blogging for no one in particular.

There was a time when my name being paged on the phone didn’t send shivers of frustration rushing up my spine, wondering who is going to yell at me next for something they are quite sure I screwed up for them.

There was a time I didn’t mind that I was invited to events, get togethers or mom gatherings simply so I could be used to write a story on the event, not because they really wanted me there or wanted to get to know me.

There was a time that I loved this job.

I can’t remember that time very well. It is fuzzy and hazy and waaay back there, or waaay down some portal of time travel.

I don’t think I’ll get back there any time soon, baring some miracle of my dead love for this job somehow being resuscitated. And if it is, let it be David Cook (American Idol) who revives it for me with some serious mouth-to-mouth.

____

Check out some humorous blogs RIGHT HERE.

Offended

My co-worker answered a call for me the other day from a grandmother who was offended by this photo:

Why was she offended? Well, apparently this young man, who you can not see the face of, served in Iraq and Afghanistan. I offended “the entire family” by not showing his face. In my attempt to be artistic I showed him from the back and focused on the monument he was guarding. And as a result I “offended the entire family” according to this woman.

My co-worker did not transfer the call to me, saying she thought the complaint was ridiculous and unwarranted. With all the other crisis situations and tragedies going on in the world, this woman was offended by an attempt to be slightly artistic.

You know what? You try to do something nice and the thanks you get in this job is a spit in the face. Which may be why I’m ready for a BIG change.

Here are some of the other photographs I took that day — from the front. I’m sure I’ve yet to receive the call of all the other “offended” people who wished I had taken photos of their loved ones from the front.

*wince* OK. That was awkward

There are a lot of awkward moments in my job. I’m a reporter for a small town newspaper, if you forgot.

Anyhow, I was taking a photograph of a check presentation — which we call a “grip and grinner” today and the young man, an eighth grader, was accepting some scholarship money. He happened to have the same last name as a long doctor.

The woman presenting the check says: “So, are you Dr. So-And-So’s son?”

“Yes, but I don’t have any contact with him,” the kid says.

No hostility in his voice. Just a matter of the fact statement.

Can you hear the crickets chirping?

I could.

Aaaaaawkward. Yikes.

I saw some more aaawkward things RIGHT HERE.

Unsolicited Sex Story (Not Mine)

Sometimes you simply don’t want to know, ya’ know? But still, the other person keeps on talkin’ and talkin’ and talkin’ . . .

This happened Tuesday and though it did not directly involve me, I was able to witness the oddness of it all. I often seem to witness the “odd” in life. What’s up with that?

Anyhow, a group of about 15 high school seniors were visiting the local assisted living facility Tuesday to garner advice from the elderly residents. I was there to take photographs for the local paper. They were all sitting casually in a nicely decorated dining room.

It seemed to be going well.

But before long the scene became ugly, very ugly.

The students asked the residents what they had done after high school, if they had gone to college, what activities they had participated in during high school, what type of music they had listened to in their youth, etc.

It was going fairly smooth and then Little Italian Lady (I call her this only because she kept saying ‘We’re Italian, you know…”) spoke up.
She had been talking about curfews and her father who was “a real gentleman,” then somehow she got off track.

“Back in the day all the Italian woman owned boarding houses,” she said. “My grandmother owned one and my father stayed there. That’s when he saw my mother. She was 12.”

I glance at the students and one of the girl’s eyes widen to the size of saucers and she looks at a student next to her and then catches my eye. I can tell she and I are thinking the same thing.

“Oh crap. Where is this going?”

“He told my grandmother that he wanted to marry her daughter,” said Little Italian Lady. “But my grandmother said, ’she’s only 12.’ My father said he didn’t care and if she didn’t agree to let him marry her he’d kidnap her. Well, they agreed to let him marry her and two months later he brought her back. He said, ‘Well, all she thinks marriage is about is cleaning. She needs to have it explained to her.’”

Little Italian Lady and Second Little Italian Lady start to laugh. I’m holding my notebook in front of my face to cover the fact I’m about to burst into laughter.

Wiser Older Lady sees that wherever this story is going it is not going to be good and attempts to derail it.

“So,” she says, turning to the students. “Do any of you hold positions in your class, like secretary or president?”

“I’m secretary,” says one girl, seeming to be pleased with the interruption of Little Italian Lady’s story.

“I’m president,” another young man says.

Unfortunately, Little Italian Lady is not to be deterred and forges ahead with her horror story.

Other Little Italian Lady laughs and joins in with Little Italian Lady’s story.

“I know. I know… back then they didn’t tell you about that stuff,” Other Little Italian Lady cackles.

“We didn’t know about sex,” Little Italian Lady says, now fully laughing at her story.

The students are talking over her here and there, trying to steer the conversation away from Tour of Old People Sex Lives.

“Well, she gave my father ten children, so I guess she figured out what it was all about,” Little Italian Lady declares with a laugh.

And with that I excused myself, grateful I had another appointment and I could laugh my butt off in my car on the way down the road and not in front of those horrified and mortified students.

———

For more horrifying and mortifying stories CLICK HERE.

For more unsolicited sex, or solicited, depending on the day, CLICK HERE.

How many chicken complaints have you gotten?

Overheard in the office from a co-worker:

“Can you tell me how many chicken complaints you’ve gotten?”

Pause.

“Uh-huh. So you are passing an ordinance to move all the chickens down to the ag zoned area. Right.”

Pause.

“So, it’s not like you are dealing with wild chickens running all over the town then….”

Pause.

“OK. Thanks, Bob. Have a good day.”

Now, seriously. Is this the most important issue we have to cover in this area  when it comes to news?

*wink*

Yes, it is, actually.

Work: Where Fun Goes to Die

Saturday and Sunday were good days.

Monday I went back to work.

Need I say more?

Probably not, but you know me — I will.

It just seems there is something about my office that breeds bitterness and contempt.

Even I find myself getting caught up in it at times.

There is a partition between my department and another one and it seems more often than not lately the one woman runs our department down non stop all morning. Instead of saying anything, I sit over here and seethe and imagine all the things I’d like to say to her.

I’d like to say: “Hey, lady, if you can do our job better than do it. Otherwise, shut up.”

I’d like to say: “What happened to you that you are such a miserable woman?”

I’d like to say: “Hey, how about you blow it out your tight …”

But I won’t say any of that because I hate confrontation and I hate “rockin’ the boat.”

As if the morning couldn’t get any worse some politician calls and starts “ranting and raving,” (but not in a fun way like Jen at Rants and Raves) about an editorial Hubby wrote for Saturday’s paper, calling the politician a liar (in so many words). Because I’ve been at meetings where this guy has been the Head Politician In Charge, I should know that this politician wouldn’t lie and blah, blah, blah-de-dah and I should have told Hubby so and blah, blah, blah-de-dah.

Anyhoo..would anyone mind if I just stepped outside, laid my head on the pavement, and begged my co-worker to run over it? And not the co-worker who complains all the time. She’d have too much fun doing it.