Skip to main content

The Ink is Black

   I'm experiencing a bit of a dilemma. I am no longer jobless. I am still, however, a bit of a goddess — although of the Rubenesque variety.
   This leads me to pondering a new name for the blog, and because I am now employed, my brain is all cramped up and I cannot begin to decide on a new title.
   I am openly soliciting suggestions. I have been told that the word "goddess" is a little intimidating. Far be it from me to project a strong personality. Whatever.
   These days my brain is freeze-dried at the end of the day. Makes me wonder what the hell I was doing for 16 years at my previous job. That place was a cake walk compared to my new situation.
   At the Catholic paper, on Fridays when we had to finish the layout, correct and produce the paper, I'd throw my Steppenwolf CD on and do a little dancing on the old magic carpet. Here, after we finish the paper, I have to run home and soak my feet.
   I can't figure out whether this job is more challenging or if I was just an enormous slacker at the other one.
   One nice thing is that we have this great art director who serves as a live radio. He sings the hits from 1970 forward — just my kind of guy. I have taken to giving him requests. Today it was anything by Three Dog Night.
   I heard Joy to the World on my way into work this morning and was instantaneously transported to my old bedroom with the white shag footprint rug and the inflatable zebra print chair. Hairbrush in hand, I would play the 45 I got off the cereal box — the first record I ever owned. There's not much I wouldn't give to hear a little Eli's Coming and who doesn't get warm and fuzzy when they hear … The ink is black, the page is white … together we learn to read and write. I could sing their praises all day.
   Anyway, I'm trying to adjust to my new work environment. The newsroom is open at the Vineyard Gazette, which I usually like. But it's tricky when someone cracks a joke or takes an office poll about the quality of the miniature Snickers bars somebody brought in while you're on the telephone with a source you've waited three days to talk to. Not that a copy editor has a source, but by golly when the librarian's aid calls and wants to tell me about the new book she's reading at story time, I'd like a little peace and quiet. Sheesh.
   I guess the up side is that I'm employed and am the proud owner of health insurance. Never mind the tired piggies and endless chore lists I leave for my husband every morning. I'm glad to have a place to go every day and I'm glad to be part of putting a newspaper together. Some people feel a sense of accomplishment after climbing a mountain. I feel that way at 8 p.m. on a Thursday when the resident DJ tells the print department that page one is ready.

You never monkey with the truth.  Ben Bradlee


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

I might need a price check

So my husband Chris works three days a week in America, and I’m trying not to take this personally.
He’s commuting Monday mornings on the 6:30 ferry over to Cape Cod, where he works at an upholstery shop in Hyannis, the Mattydale of Cape Cod, for all you Syracuse readers. I stay here and hold down the fort, cooking up a cocktail of frozen pizzas and mac n’ cheese weeknights for my poor Danny. Chris comes back late Thursday night, all giddy over toilet paper prices and quotes on cheaper rent.
No, no, no, and more no I say. I can’t possibly leave all this off-season quiet and high-priced laundry detergent. There’s no convincing me to leave no matter how many times Chris points out that there’s a Trader Joe’s “over there.”
I want to stay here until I miraculously win on one of those $5 scratchers and can buy my own house here. The difference being that I feel confident that I will someday scratch my way to freedom while Chris thinks we’d be smarter to look into a nice rental “over there.…

Getting well takes baby steps

So I’ve had what you could call a case of the pneumonia. It was not pleasant. And to top it off it happened in San Antonio, Texas. Like I wasn’t sweating before the fever.
I was there to see my niece Michelle, who by the way kept asking me, “Are you going to write about this?” which is funny because she’s a writer too. I naturally said, “Oh no, of course not.” And here we are.
Thinking back, the best part of that trip teeters between meeting my two great-nephews, Oliver and Isaac, and having a couple of beers with their Yaya, my sister, who I haven’t had beers with in decades. Like I said, it’s a toss-up. There’s also the fact that I got to spend time with my niece’s husband Alex. He’s a hardcore military guy. He teaches other military guys how to be military policemen. I’m not going to gamble on writing anything about him. He’s from Wisconsin though, which I like. And he likes to cook, which I also like.
I thought to myself before I ever left my nice cocoon of Martha’s Vineyard to tra…

Who's got the soap?

I’m wondering at what age I’m allowed to hire a personal care attendant, covered by insurance of course. I haven’t reached my toenails in two and half years and the other day in the shower I seriously considered whether or not it was worth it to soap up below the waist. It hurts when I go anywhere past my kneecaps.
I’m okay with gray hair; that’s been coming in since I was in my 30s and I could still reach my ankles. It’s the burgeoning mountain under my man-sized T-shirts, just below my sagging breasts, that really gets to me. I want to know when exactly I stopped looking like I was 20, because it feels like yesterday. I look in the mirror strictly from the shoulders up these days.
It’s not completely depressing. I know there are about a billion other women in the same boat I’m in. I love the women who wear whatever the hell they want. Doesn’t matter if they’ve got those top-heavy grandma arms or busted veins mapping their legs. I say go for it ladies. I’m gonna get there someday.…