Sux to be me...

... where sports are concerned.

Let me explain:

While some tonight were gnashing their teeth and trying not to spill their bourbon, I was pausing at the gym and in the grocery store to inquire where things stood in the Arkansas/LSU game.

Not because I'm a Hog fan.

*BLASPHEMY!*

yeah, yeah, whatever

My photographer husband shoots a lot of sports. This means frequent absences during certain times of the year -- like now, right before the holidays, when I'm remembering how he had to leave on Christmas Day 2006 so that he could be in Florida to shoot a week of practices -- PRACTICES! -- before the bowl game. I rushed the Cornish hens in and out of the oven so fast, they were still squawking when I laid their neatly little trussed-up bodies on the dining room table. Because, you know, Hubs had to catch a flight.

grr.

When we lived in San Antonio, with our toddler and newborn -- TODDLER AND NEWBORN!! -- the damn Spurs just kept on winning. And I kept cussing. Because every time they played, Hubs was there, editing photos. The night the fireworks went off on our cul-de-sac -- well, I was the bitchy freak yelling, "Could you please keep it down out there?!" as people frolicked through neighborhoods. The city filled with residents unified in joy -- all except for the snarky, sleep-deprived, breastfeeding mother over on Irish Lane. I was the beeyotch of the NBA, and I held that title proudly.

So games like tonight, games that will determine which weekends of my holiday season will be ruined -- ruined, people! -- by those *splutter* unaccommodating athletes, oh, they leave me wringing my hands and drinking my own bourbon.

How would you like to plan all your visits and celebrations around the Hogs'schedule? When you're not a Hogs fan, I mean.

It was bad enough in Texas, where A&M cranks out cult members and UT trots out a longhorn and the Tech horse ends up dead when it runs into a wall during halftime -- but now I'm living in a state where people "call the hogs" at games.

They. Call. The. Hogs. Let that settle in your brain a bit before you comment.

Never, given my apathy toward sports, did I dream I would end up married to a man who shoots sports or living in a state in which people yell "Wooooo, Pig! Soooie!" with religious fervor.

So Paige, despite my Arkansas residency, I feel your pain. Hubs won't be home for hours...

Still -- check out this photo from last year's SEC Championship -- you can tell by the photo that things did not go well.



Yes, yes, very nice. But the Hubs' talents could be much better used. Take, for example, these Clinton photos. Love them. LOVE them! (That's his nephew peeking out the house with him during a tour of the boyhood home.)





Final blow of the evening? I accidentally threw away a plate of brownies after mistaking them for Hubs' leftover lumps of deer sausage. Am weepeing...

What would you have done?

There are days I wonder whether I'm cut out for this anymore.

I don't know if you've heard about this, but I can't get it out of my head.

(Note: The above link isn't my story. That one came from Dallas.)

On Monday, a city editor put a wire version of that story on my desk, and asked me if I'd seen it. Then he asked me to see if the family would mind if I covered the funeral.

I did not want to go. I prayed I would not have to go. The kids were 5 and 2. My God, I did not want to attend that funeral. I've covered children's funerals. In one case, there were five buried together the same day.

But I didn't have to go to this one. The family didn't respond to my request.

Then the emails from editors started trickling in --

"Hey, what happened with the funeral?" and "Hey, weren't you supposed to be checking on that funeral?"

OK, so maybe they didn't mean to sound so flippant and/or accusatory. Maybe I was being hypersensitive.

But my first thought after getting those emails?

Oh, sure, I'll just be the reporter who crashes the funeral of a 5- and 2-year-old. Yeah, readers will just love that.

We knew you were just a bunch of vultures.


Funerals aren't public events. If people don't want you there, well, you honor that request. As a journalist, I don't feel entitled to sit in on the service, not if I'm not wanted there.

Instead, I wrote a different sort of story, one about the public's response to this family's string of tragedies. I worked hard on it, calling and emailing people all over the nation to ask why this story resonated with them, why had it moved them to reach out to this couple?

That was the gist of my story: Sometimes, people really do give a shit when they see you hurting. Sometimes, they feel compelled to help you.

And the response from two editors?

Did the mom not buckle in her kids?



Actually, it was more like this: By the way, I wish you'd found out how the kids were restrained, if they were.

Can you hear my brain's gears rumbling and shifting?


I looked into that element. But reports varied. Everyone agreed the 2-year-old was strapped into his car seat. But the 5- and 9-year-olds? Not so certain. Maybe they were, maybe they weren't. Given the sorry, awfulness of the family's situation, I wasn't about to write anything I didn't feel sure of. Especially when that poor woman and her brain-damaged husband are already going through hell.

What bothers me is that even if I knew for sure about the seat belts -- I don't know how I would have addressed the issues. It wasn't that kind of story. I wasn't writing about what led up the children's deaths or how they died, I was writing about the aftermath, how people reached out to the mom and dad, wanting to cradle them through this dark time.

Besides, what if the kids had unbuckled themselves and she didn't know because ohthankthelord we have four hours still to go and they're finally being quiet ...

But some people need to find a source of blame. Because you know, people can't be forever shattered by pure, dumb, godawful, random circumstances.

On the other hand, if it's true the kids weren't wearing seat belts, maybe by including that information, I might have prompted other people to re-think their practices.

But then again, the mom. For the love of God, the mom. My gut tells me that given the kind of story I wrote, readers would have found an analysis of the family's seat belt practices to be distasteful.

Imagine the mother reading that.

And again, what if they were buckled in? I couldn't find out for sure during a hurried day of reporting. All I know is that the 2-year-old was found still strapped in his car seat.

I feel like a failed journalist. I feel like a failed human being.

I can't link you to my story because our newspaper website is open only to subscribers. Basically, it was a series of very personal explanations from people who had either signed the online funeral guestbook or donated to the family. Example: A mother of two young children in another state describes why this story lingered with her, even though she didn't know the family. I called her after finding a very moving note from her on the guestbook.

This is one of those weeks when I wonder why on earth I didn't take a nice, comfy PR job instead of venturing down this path.

Look at them. What would you have done?

Repeat three times: I am merely an observer

The last I heard from J., she was at the bedside of a hospitalized friend. She sounded fine. Brisk. In charge.

That was probably about three weeks ago. I called back. No answer. I left a message. She called back. I wasn't at my desk.

And I meant to call again. I did. But our conversations usually last awhile, and I was busy at work and even busier at home ... and I never made that call.

Now here's where things get sticky.

J. was the subject of a couple of in-depth stories I wrote for the paper. She had suffered a horrible loss, and for six months I immersed myself in her life.

The stories came out and reaction from readers seemed to give J. a little peace. And of course, I felt so good about myself because oh how wonderful that all these people care about J.'s situation.

In the months that followed the stories' publication, J. and I stayed in sporadic contact. A reporter often assumes the role of a good bartender. Or a priest. Most of us tend not to judge because we've seen it all and heard it all. We make for fantastic listeners. Because, you know, that's what we do.

Some people, J. included, find it hard to let go of that bartender. And you know, I like hearing from the people I've written about. I like knowing how they're doing, what's going on in their lives.

So I was always happy to hear from J, who would call every so often to fill me in on her life. "Hey, girl!" she'd say. "You'll never guess what happened..."

She told me about the breakup with her boyfriend. She told me about her son and her frustrations with his new school. She told me all about this cute guy she'd started dating. She told me how she'd quit her new job because the place was in financial trouble and they hadn't paid her.

She didn't tell me she was falling apart, or that she'd told her friends she was on her way down and couldn't seem to swim up.

Last week, I'd heard from a photographer that J. had yet another new job. I figured I would stop by, surprise her, see how she was doing.

But then yesterday I got a panicked phone call from a friend of J.'s who lives in another state.

She couldn't find J. Could I help her? Did I have any other phone numbers? A mutual friend of theirs had died. She needed to tell J. There was a funeral to plan for.

I called every number I'd ever had for J.

Disconnected.

I called the new place of employment and was told she no longer worked there.

Odd, I thought.

So I called J.'s friend back and suggested she call J.'s workplace and see if she could get more information.

Five minutes later, she called me again.

"I'm really worried," she said. "I talked to someone who said he's a friend of hers and he said she's in a situation right now that doesn't allow her to contact anyone. And no one can call her."

Oh, God. Jail.

I don't know why I immediately jumped to that conclusion. J. didn't have any sort of criminal history. At least, not one that I or police or prosecutors knew of.

"You know, she could be in rehab," one of my reporter-friends said. "Has she ever had a problem with drugs?"

She's been through hell and I could see her looking to medicate herself into oblivion. But I've got a bad feeling.

I called the county jail.

Yes, the woman said. She's here. Been here since last week.

I'm still not clear on what landed her there, but this is what I struggle with:

This woman was the subject of a story. She wasn't someone I'm "allowed" to get close to. But you can't spend all that time with someone, you can't wiggle yourself into every intimate corner of their lives, and then not wonder or care about what happens to them.

OK, well, fine, that makes me human.

What's frustrating is that because I wrote about her, because credibility and objectivity are mainstays of my job, there's not a damn thing I can do for her.

Those stories? They did a lot of good. And if I were to get too involved now, that would bring into question whether I was too involved then.

If I weren't a reporter, I would write or visit her in jail and say, "Hey, is there anything you need? What happened? Are you OK? Can I call someone for you?"

But I am a reporter. And being her friend isn't -- it can't be -- my role.

And it sucks. Because I know she's in bad shape. And because I really liked this woman, and I wanted to see her make it. I wanted to see her overcome.

I don't know all the details of what landed her in jail. I don't know that I want to know all the details.

Because the truth is, no matter how many stories I write about horrible things that happen to people, I can't help but feel hopeful. I do my interviews and I write the story and then I cross my fingers. Maybe it will turn out OK. She'll get through this dark time and find new inspiration and hope.

But she didn't.

And the whole situation just really bites.

Miss Julia & the Mystery of Al's Ashes

So this morning I checked my email and found notification that my Blogherads code was available -- and the message was from Yvonne!

Of course, I immediately went all stalkerish and emailed her back, carrying on about how much I've enjoyed her Judy posts, thereby giving her yet another reason to be fearful of new, overly enthusiastic acquaintances.

Anyway, her Judy stories have taken me back to the days of Julia, the most faithful source I've ever had in this profession. Well, except for this one Junior Leaguer, who single-handedly brought down a huge nonprofit agency after it failed to pay the band for the Junior League's biggest fund raiser of the year.

(Warning to any unscrupulous people living in the South: Never. Piss. Off. The. Junior. League.)

Anyway, while Julia was not Junior League material by any stretch, she was ... well .... memorable.

I met Julia while reporting for the Beaumont Enterprise in southeast Texas. Her husband, Al, had once worked at the paper, covering City Hall.

Julia called me every day at 4 p.m. That would be at the height of deadline for a small-town newspaper reporter. Still, I couldn't ignore her, even though she talked FOREVER, because every so often, Julia offered absolutely priceless news tips.

One afternoon, after I had seriously contemplated not picking up, Julia informed me that she had been listening to her police scanner -- which she loved just about as much as the dozens of stray pets she took in --- when she heard that a county commissioner had been blasted off his bulldozer by water from a firehose after he had tried to run over some firefighters.

The firefighters were there to put out a fire that the commissioner started while clearing brush on the job -- despite a county burn ban being place.

Which, it turns out, had been secretly lifted by the county judge, who happened to be a good friend of the bull-dozing commissioner.

And now flames were shooting up past the towering pines and the firemen were pissed.

Of course, I raced out there. (Firefighters! Yum!)

And it was all just as Miss Julia had said. Trees were scorched, neighbors were agog and the commissioner had been taken to the hospital to make sure he wasn't injured.

So you see why it didn't pay to blow off Julia.

Twice a year, for Christmas and her birthday, I dropped by Julia's house with a card or gift. She wouldn't let people in her house, so we'd sit at the foot of her driveway in lawn chairs. Julia always offered a leafy branch of ... some plant or another ... which we would use to swat away the mosquitoes.

The one thing Julia didn't talk about was her marriage to Al, which of course, was what I was dying to hear about.

Newsroom legend had it that Al once caused a security guard to just about pee his pants after finding Al sleeping in a darkened area on the deserted third floor of the newspaper. Supposedly, it was Al's vampirish sleeping position -- hands crossed over his chest -- that spooked the guard. From then on, the guard refused to go up there after hours. He said the prospect of stumbling across Al was just too unnerving.

By the time I met Julia, Al was long dead. Supposedly, the pair had split up before his passing, but when Al fell ill, Julia cared for him, a bit testily, but still...

I remember asking Marie -- the editor's assistant who hailed from Cajun Country and longtime friend of Julia -- about Al and Julia's relationship, but Marie just smiled mysteriously.

"Has Julia ever told you what she did with Al's ashes?" Marie asked.

Again, that cryptic smile.

I begged. I fell at Marie's teensy feet and groveled. I promised to never again make fun of her for that time she took home the leftover margaritas from the newsroom party and arrived at work the next morning with her soft, gray hair dyed a glossy ebony.

But Marie wouldn't budge.

My imagination ran wild. Knowing Julia, she could have done just about anything with her ex-husband's remains. And who knew what Mr. Vampire might have specified in his will?

It became a quest, to find out where those ashes were. By then, my fellow reporters were equally intrigued.

What if Al's ashes were stashed somewhere in the newsroom?

One night, after Marie stood on a chair and tipsily sang along to that well-known David Allan Coe song at a local bar, I took advantage of her condition and asked about the ashes.

She told me. And for the next hour, I was the only person to know what became of Al.

Then I got snockered and by next morning...

... the long-sought revelation had been wiped clean from my brain by alcohol.

No amount of pleading could wrest the information from Marie again.

I have this nagging hint of a memory involving Al and a bag of dog food. But then I tell myself that surely, even given all her eccentricities, Miss Julia wouldn't have gone that far...

I don't think.

You want me at your workplace. Really.

My last post and the recollection of having to tell a new employer I was pregnant brought to mind the many interviews I've had in the 13 years since getting that college degree.

In my 20s, I roamed. Frequently. From age 23 to 29, I worked at four newspapers before heading to Arkansas. I stayed here 5 years, then Hubs and I figured we'd try heading back to our home state of Texas.

Opportunity presented itself in the spring of 2004 in San Antonio.

It was the most memorable job interview ever.

Hubs and I had just wrapped up a week's vacation in Big Bend when we headed to San Antonio to discuss our prospects there.

By late afternoon, I'd met with several editors and reporters. Hubs, meanwhile, was hanging out with photographers and photo editors.

That particular day, a longtime editor happened to be leaving for a new job at a sister newspaper.

So the higher-ups brought in a mariachi band for the festivities.

I stood, swaying in appreciation, in a hallway just off the newsroom.

Suddenly, one member of the ensemble headed in my direction. He was laughing, beckoning.

I looked behind me. I looked around me.

Oh my God, is he coming toward me?

"I don't work here," I mouthed to the young, grinning man as he approached. "No, no!"

But he grabbed my hand and tugged.

Now I have done my share of dancing -- the Chicken Dance, the Macarena, you name it, I've probably attempted it. But only under the influence of alcohol and dim lighting.

Now, here I was, dressed in a a fitted, interview-appropriate skirt and shirt, being hauled in front of the newsroom. Sober. Under fluorescent lighting.

He made me do the twist. In front of prospective employers. He took me all the way down to the floor.

"Hey, man." A photographer nudged Hubs, who had joined the gathering but was too busy talking to pay attention to the mariachi band.

"Isn't that your wife up there?"

Hubs turned, just as my ass was inches from the floor, my hips still swiveling, face flushed with humiliation.

"Oh. Yeah. That's Cathy. You can't take her anywhere."

Can I go home yet?

I am now seeing a physical therapist to help manage these stupid headaches — which I still contend are a part of The Mono, but my doctor disagrees ("I've never heard of mono causing headaches.") even though my Googling clearly proves him incorrect. (got all that?)

So as I was laying on the table —

— We interrupt the following whiny post to declare one bright spot to my week — Mrs. Chicken ever so kindly awarded me this —



— and I must thank her for giving me such shiny bling!

We now resume today's lament:

OK, so —

As I was laying on the table, receiving a heavenly massage from a man named Scott, we started talking about my job as a reporter and then he starting reminiscing about how he used to be a city council member in a community near here.

I froze.

Have I interviewed this person? OMG, no wonder his name sounds familiar. How very awkward.

"Oh. Um ... when were you on the council?" I asked.

"It was a few years ago," he said. "I'm not on it anymore."

The chicken story. Eek. Is this the guy I interviewed when the city council wanted to ban pet chickens? How humiliating. How many bad puns did I put in that story anyway? Did I tell him my maiden name? I bet he doesn't know which reporter I am. Please, given that I'm naked, don't let him recognize me.

"So ... um ... what sorts of issues did you have to deal with during your term?"

Please, please, don't say chickens.


"Oh, well, there was some stuff involving the charter school. But that was about it. I was only on the council for two years."

"So, nothing about .... livestock?"

The therapist laughed, clearly puzzled.

"No. Just the school."

thankyouthankyouthankyou

On returning to the newsroom, I did a quick search through our archives. And no, I did not interview my therapist/former city councilman for the stupid chicken story. Still, his name is naggingly familiar.

I'm getting old. When I first started in this business, I remembered everybody — names, under what circumstances I had interviewed people, whatever happened to so-and-so... Now I'm lucky if I can remember the way home.

Oh, and also?

A city editor just asked me to babysit the police scanners. Have discovered I am deaf. Volume adjustment required. As a result, the scanners are now so loud that other (younger) reporters keep shooting me looks.

Just you wait, sonny. One day, you too will be going to physical therapy and wondering if the person rubbing your back used to be a source. And you too will pray that if anything explodes, you will feel the vibrations because God knows you will never hear the calls go out on the scanner.

On my way to AARP membership. 13 years and counting...

My ob/gyn's office just called. During the conversation, I said "pap smear" so loudly — presumably because of the deafness and, of course, because the scanners are blaring — that the two people in front of me just turned around. How long until I start sharing the intimate details of my digestive ailments with co-workers? Or complaining about my stiff joints and need for more fiber?

I am so glad it's Friday. Am ready to slink home.

OK, so newspapers may not be around...

...by the time he's old enough to write (or shoot photos) for one, but at least the kid shows some interest in that which currently keeps his parents employed.

Or maybe he hates my reporting and thinks Daddy's pictures suck. Who knows what sort of criticisms drift through that agile mind as he peruses our day's work? (ha.)

Why my job sometimes doesn't rock

I suffer from bird phobia.

Birds creep me out — those pointy beaks, beady little eyes and the lethal-looking talons (shudder) ...

Plus, I'm one of those dry-goods-hoarding, bird-flu-fearing freaks who's convinced the little squawkers are out to do us in with a raging epidemic, just so they can take over the planet.

(Alfred H., you were a wise, wise man. You saw their potential for evil.)

So the day before yesterday, a photographer and I headed over to the zoo to check out a new, interactive lorikeet exhibit. First, however, we visited the birds — all 25 of them — in their current teeny-tiny quarters.

Inside. A. Locked. Cage. With 25 birds.

I sidled in behind the photographer — who raises pigeons and happens to think all birds are fascinating — and stood, motionless and terrified, while he took pictures and played with a lorikeet named "Bitey."

Ahem.

At one point, four lorikeets lined up on the branch directly in front of me, cocking their little heads and squawking at me — clearly an attempt to intimidate.

Leave immediately, intruder, or we will peck your eyes out.

So I did, clutching my poop-stained notebook, tugging at my poop-streaked shirt and ID badge and wiping poop from my hair.

Still, moments later, I mustered enough courage to wear this little lorikeet on my shoulder and smile (albeit painfully, with clenched teeth) for the camera.

And of course, the bird managed to look cute and cuddly and totally harmless.

But I know she wanted a piece of my ear.

Sometimes my job rocks

In 1953, a woman in England was engaged to a man she adored. And then, one afternoon, she was attacked and raped. Three months later, she found out she was pregnant. Her mother was horrified, and demanded that this woman give up her baby. When she was seven months along, the woman's parents sent her a home for pregnant girls in London, so none of their friends or neighbors would know. She had the baby, then returned to the home as arrangements for the adoption were made. In the photo below, the woman is holding her 6-week-old girl. A week or so later, she gave the baby up for adoption. The transfer took place in an English tea room. Can you imagine, being forced to give up your child six weeks after coming home from the hospital? I can't.



Before you judge, remember this was 1950s England, when "disgraceful" pregnanices were hidden. And bear in mind, this woman still lived with her parents. She was very much under their influence.


This week, mother and daughter were reunited. I'd already spent a couple of weeks talking to the woman about what happened all those years ago. And then I was there, when the two saw each other for the first time.



And it was one of those moments when I was so glad to be doing what I do.

Take a walk through our newsroom

Listen to the reporters' conversations. You'll understand why I'll never be fit to work in any other environment:

"... and so for the next 24 hours, you have to pee in this bucket ..."

"... caught trying to steal a sheep from the zoo ... said he thought it was his mother..."

"OH NO!" [Thud, thud, thud] "I just wrote this email about how I was worried I might be pregnant and that I forgot to take my anti-depressant this morning and then accidentally sent it to one of my sources..."

" ... he used Dippity-Do for WHAT?!"

"... So should I send another email apologizing for that first email about the anti-depressants?"

" ... used a garbage can to steal that sheep from the petting zoo ... no, the sheep wasn't injured ..."

" ... guy said the strippers beat him too hard during a birthday spanking ..."

[Religion editor walks by, pauses at a reporter's computer screen and notices a man wearing a thong.]

"What website are you on?"

"Go Fug Yourself."

[Editor looks hurt.]

"... Um ... OK."

Just returned from Boston...

...after attending a narrative journalism conference there.

Loved two of the speakers. Met one nice, unassuming and self-deprecating journalist.

As for most of the other people there, well -- confession: I really do not care for the reporters and editors I meet at these things.

Arrogant. Pretentious. Pontificating.

Thank God my friends Amy and Austin were there. Otherwise, I would have spent much of my time skulking from one session to the next, praying I wouldn't be obligated to make nice.

My usual conference practice goes something like this: I go to the sessions. I pick out which people are likely to be most obnoxious during the Q & A portion. Then I make fun of them at dinner. Few of these people -- many of them conference junkies -- bother to actually ASK anything. No, they approach the microphone and begin with something like this: "I once worked on this 90-part, one-million word series in 1990 that was nominated for xxx number of national awards, and I've always thought that..."

Let's put it this way: There are no hotels I know of that are big enough to contain all that ego.

In my spare time, I walked the Freedom Trail, visited the JFK Presidential Library and gorged on the best seafood I've had in years.

I also missed my kids like crazy, a point highlighted by an incident on a train that nearly brought me to tears.

As this little girl — 2ish, maybe? -- climbed up the steps, her shoe came off and fell onto the tracks. Everyone was looking out the window, her parents were telling her they couldn't get the shoe, and this toddler just sobbed and sobbed — from one station to the next.

Heartwrenching. Mainly because I could imagine Tootie's heartbreak on losing a prized piece of footwear.

Hell, I've owned shoes whose parting would have caused me to weep. (Although I loved them for their comfort, not their style, sadly. I'm sure this child's shoe was much more fetching than any of mine.)