Yes, it’s getting worse

The gnashing of teeth here at the Miami Herald is only just beginning. For starters, my department boss has decided to scramble everyone into another job. You do A section? Go to Local B instead. You do B section? Now you are sports. Oh, and if you thought you were doing the Business section…now you do Sports pages at the same time.

What do we do with these pages, you ask. Well, we find out how long the stories are, what size headline to ask the copy desk to write, what boxes, graphics, and pictures we weren’t told about absolutely HAVE TO RUN on the page. We have to know what art has already been in the paper this week, where to find mugs of people featured in roundups. We have to wrap this melange around a group of ads, and remember to check the ad content so we don’t feature a plane crash story on a page of airline ads. In short, we do a million little things to bring the reader a physical paper to hold in his/her hands each day. This is all set to a deadline: God forbid you miss that.

And now, with the implementation of a new schedule, this newspaper does more: my boss has found a way to warp space and time! Yes! A miracle of willpower, with maybe a little physics thrown in.

 We now have seven nine hour shifts, but we can’t get paid for overtime. In this manner, he has suavely blended in enough “free” hours to make up one of the full-timers we were forced to lose. Of course, (nod, wink) we nine hour-ers are “supposed” to take an hour lunch break. Who cares about the poor saps still on eight hour days? They can eat after work.

Well, neither I nor anyone I know has had time for a lunch break in the 9 (NINE) years I’ve been up here. Not if we’re going to make pages in time for deadline.

I don’t give a damn, you say.  I don’t want to pay for a paper that’s outdated when I can get my news online, you whinge. Yes, I said whinge. Of course you don’t ninny. Not now, when you have a choice. But what happens when there isn’t a choice?

Are you going to slog through a web page that has 80 inches of words in it? Each day for a week, like our series on housing corruption, or the juvenile justice system? Will you care about the story that lies behind the description of what occurrred?

 Acually, you will never care about issues you don’t get exposed to. How could you? It takes time and money to follow these stories to completion. How will online news, with its short, double-spaced graphs and sound/video bites get your attention for that long on one story?

The Miami Herald, like all good newspapers, takes the time to dig deeper. We present it to you with bells and whistles to make sure you not only read the articles, you find it impossible not to understand them. But it costs too much, you whine. And I because I’m supposed to recycle, I can’t throw it away when I’ve read it.

Say amen and bow your head. The Second Coming can’t be far away.

More changes….

  Well hell. It’s been too long since I posted anything. For a while, I wondered what this blog was all about, but I guess it’s just discovering how to acclimate myself to change. Big changes.

This image of the Everglades hits home. A horizon that promises needed rain, but threatens with deadly lightning. Like the plans we’ve made to guarantee our future: on the edge of blowing up.

At work, the newspaper industry is in such a slump, we are losing 17% of our employees. Nope, this gal isn’t about to embark on her last chapter (retirement) after all….not just yet. I managed to hang on, but at the cost of my home routine. New shift work, new days off, and new duties. No more seniority in picking schedules. We’ll be assigned wherever. “And be damn grateful for it” is the undertone. So, sure, I am. Oh yeah. Hell, I can toe a party line as well as anyone.

Youngest Son has decided to go back to college, so we are hanging in for a while to be able to afford it for him. No college fund? Uh, well, not exactly: a rental house was supposed to be his college fund. Who knew we’d never be able to sell it in this market? In the meantime, he hasn’t signed on for any classes. What’s up with that?

At any rate, I just got back from Alabama. checking on my mom. She hasn’t been well.  Last night I was there, she falls in the bathroom while my stepfather is on the front porch, aiming a pistol at imaginary trespassers. But they don’t need help, nossir, they are doing damn fine, thank you and get out.

So that’s the current chapter, and by God, I’m ready to finish this one.

But on second thought, why am I complaining? I still have a job, Mom is still kicking (figuratively), YS is a good kid. My book is coming along. Mr. N2LC still loves me.

I have to stop now, before I break out and begin singing The Sound of Music in the newsroom. The Miami Herald isn’t ready for that: I’d really be fried then!

Slow radicalization

A Potent Spell, by Janna Malamud Smith should be required reading for all girls ready to leave school. Or have babies. Or get married. Or grow old, wondering where the time went.

The premise is that women’s love of their children generates a horrific fear of the loss of same children that enables them to be easily manipulated.

Huh.

Well, any of us can tell you that’s right. What I didn’t know was that maybe, just maybe,  things could be different. But Smith also asserts that men don’t want women to be any other way, as it makes them easier to control.

Double huh.

My hackles start to rise as I realize how neatly I fit into the framework Smith describes. And funny enough, tonight’s sitcoms DON’T look funny any more. The jokes could be material she examines for its hostility to working mothers. The gags focus on mothers that can’t do enough, be enough, give enough, to avoid ridicule.

Smith talks about shame as a motivation for compliance. The greatest shame is that of being measured against other women and found lacking in the skills needed to be a good mother.

 I am amazed at how one book has resonanted within me. I wonder if I had been this aware years ago what might have changed? I never thought of myself as a radical women’s rights person.

Triple huh and damn.

February First

Great news!

We live with a certain subculture dominating the night at our house. Sad to say, ever since that damn hurricane Wilma (2006 if you are counting), my roof was fucked, and what comes into your house when you live in the tropics, and have a fucked roof?

Fucking rats, that’s what. Last year, it was the big Norway buggers that are the size of kittens, trailing down the hallway like they paid the mortgage and I was the maid.  I complained to the roofers (when they showed up, which wasn’t often enough to prevent mildew blooms from decorating all our drywall).

They told me the rats are just curious.

No, I didn’t believe it either. Anyway, it took a few months, but we cleared the bastards out.

Now? Their smaller relatives are trying to stake a claim to return.

Bread bag? Filled with holes, empty of bread. Scurrying noises at night that AREN’T the refrigerator. So we went on the attack. After all, the roof is fixed, even if we have a few holes along the eaves. Poison was discreetly placed, both to attract the resident rodents and protect the family dogs.

So what’s the great news, you wonder?

Last Friday night, the family princess, our boxer Najiah, bravely faced down a sick rat. She caught it, and YS, in a panic, yelled for his father to quit sleeping fer fuck’s sake. Come and kill the rat.

Mr. N2LC stumbled out of bed, and went into to do his manly duty. He got the broom, the scoop, swept up the (I’m assured it was a SMALLl rodent) and headed outside, crossed the street and deposited said rodent with a thump on its head to eternity.

All in his Fruit of the Looms.  Or, as YS put it: “his tiny whites”.

So the dog is a heroine. the father is a hero.

Peace reigns again.

Added later:

Uh, well, almost. I know what you’re thinking: where there is smoke there is fire, where there is one rat…

there are more.

Yeah. Another one bit the dust last night. We’re back on DefCON 3 status.

New year

It’s been too long since I posted…. having trouble getting sorted for this year. I’ve been reading about becoming more efficient, but the truth is, the more time I spend reading about organization, etc., the farther behind I am falling.

    YS just got back from spending a weekend with his grandma. He had a good time, and she was lucid, thank God. I was worried he might find her needing to go to the hospital again, but she’s been looking after herself. I think having his visit gave her something to look forward to. I wasn’t crazy that he rented a Mustang to drive to her house…

 There has been some bad news in our family regarding separations and it’s got me thinking about security. How you have it, how you don’t. When news of a divorce came through, all of us were shaken, as though the spectre of change had raised a bony finger to point at us and say “You’re next!”

Even John felt it: when Mr. N2LC began his usual banter about trading Mom for another model, John actually piped up with “I don’t like that talk.” Well. ‘Nuff said about that.

But secure, security, secureness, safeness, safety. All words with connotations today far beyond their meaning on Sept 10, 2001. What is secure?

401K retirement plans? In today’s market? Pardon my snort.  Jobs? Spouses? Even getting up out of bed. Or, considering my own personal genetic heritage, the ability to think past age 70 that looks like a pipe dream. (My boys have an edge on that: they aren’t bound by genetics to my lousy family history.)

So. Maybe I need to hold off posting any more until I have something positive to say!

Christmas weekend

Okay, all apologies for sentimentalism are withdrawn. I had a lovely birthday, thank you very much: a card from my husband, dinner out, and a request from YS that I set aside time to spend with him this weekend.

He’s just 20, and wants to spend time with me? I am thrilled. I plan to corral him into baking cookies and/or a pound cake. We have most of our presents bought, not many wrapped, and lots of Christmas music to listen to.

Imagine this:

 When I get home from work, about 2 a.m. most nights, the tree is the only light on. The tinsel moves like an indrawn breath every time the ceiling fan rotates and thousands of tiny glitters reflect from each twist in the silver strands. (I’ve been reading Haney’s translation of Beowulf- some of the alliteration is seeping through). The star is pierced through, so the ceiling is covered in more tiny lights. The colored twinklers turn the room into a softly glowing cocoon.

The dogs, Najia and Sam, climb with me  into a big torn-at-the-corners easy chair and listen to the Irish Tenors sing Christmas carols.

I love that time of night. All good things seem possible, all plans realized and hopes fulfilled. And if a single worry manages to intrude, Najia licks my face (yeah, she needs a toothbrush!), and brings me back.

Merry Christmas to all of you who celebrate Christmas, and Happy Holidays to everyone else. More than anything, may you find a bit of peace that can spread into your life beyond the next few days.

Tagged again

Thanks to Galwegian, I need to list 7  facts about myself.

1. I usually read three books at one time: one at home, one at work and one in the john.

2. I love to cook, but my guys only eat grilled meat, potatoes and one can of veg. At almost every meal. Anything like a casserole, cake or exotic recipe (read more than 3 ingredients) is treated with extreme suspicion and usually pronounced only fit to give away.

 3. I sew kids’ clothes, and since I only have boys, used to make outfits for them. Until Mr. N2LC observed I was dressing them like little fags.

4. I’ve been writing a novel about the Mariel boatlift, when 100,000 Cubans entered Miami in the space of three months. Sounds like Ireland now, doesn’t it?

5. Nothing makes me happier than going through a store filled with fabrics and paint swatches. I have fabric I bought thirty years ago, just haven’t found the right project for it.

6. People with disabilities need to learn adaptive strategies for getting along in life: I have a bit of a gift for sussing them out, and finding interventions for both parents and child.

7. I dye my hair and chose the color of the name, Rich Mahogany, in the hope it would bring me luck and fortune, but I’m still working for a living. Hell, it’s more interesting than mousey brown and gray.

 Dear God,  I sound so Martha Stewart I could barf! What happened to the 70’s flower child I thought I’d be? Let’s move along and pass this to John at http://spokesnfolks.blogspot.com/; Nelly at http://nellysgarden.blogspot.com/.

Pre Holiday Blues?

I’m almost not certain why things just make me feel like breaking into tears today…no, it’s not a particular time of the month, and no, I haven’t run out of antideppresants (don’t use them!).

I began writing this post a few days ago and just couldn’t continue.

I’ve seen on other blogs how people decry the commercialism of the holidays, and I wondered if that was part of what got me down. Nope, don’t really think so after all. I can watch the fancy commercials for fabulous feeds without feeling compelled to buy and try to cook the same things. I can even see the great holiday fashions without becoming too too jealous of someone else’s smaller size. And I’ve never tried to buy all the gifts for Christmas that would make my kids the envy of the block.

What was it?

I think the problem was closer to home. Mr. N2LC isn’t a demonstrative person: it took several years before he was comfortable holding hands in public. Even then, it had to be where no one knew us.  It works for us, we’re nearly 30 years married.

 The other day, he gave me a wonderful hug, and the closeness was so startling that when we separated, I felt part of me had cleaved away.

What else is there to say.

December hits

Now that Thanksgiving is officially off the books, my boys are wondering, no, hinting, uh, no, listing each of their Christmas requests. Oh, I meant ”their requests for Christmas decorations”, and the lists seem to fall nonchalantly from their lips as we discuss tree sizes, lists, decorations, lists, music, lists. You get the picture.

I’ve been told to buy $600 worth of tools from Sears by my darling YS (Not in this lifetime). I bought some, and will keep the gift receipt, because for sure he won’t like the ones I got.  He appreciates the effort, don’t get me wrong, but after all, if I have the receipt, and he prefers a particular wrench or screwdriver…well, you get the idea. And he is sweet about it, he hates for me to feel that I was careless or didn’t listen to what he what wanted…yeah. I still just want to pinch his cheeks, even if I have to reach up to get to them.

Older Son is a bit cuter..I have to admit he makes me laugh. When he was very small, he opened all his packages, then looked his daddy in the eye and asked, “What did you get me, Daddy?” Of course, said daddy had no reply.

Who but me buys gifts at Christmas? Come on, ladies, don’t make me feel bad: Do you buy all the family gifts too, or have I just been a dupe all these years?

At any rate, Dad was cornered. I have to say he was almost clever in his response: “My gift to you is tomorrow,” he said, “when you see what you’re missing from your list.” Ha!

I say almost, because he had just promised to take the kid shopping the DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS, and I myself wouldn’t be caught within 5 miles of any toy store that day. But they went, and himself was so proud that he saved so much money by buying the day after that it became a tradition between them. And each year, he took YS back to exchange the gift he received that somehow wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind.

Well, a tradition with OS and YS anyway. Now OS and I go online after Christmas to pick out what he was dying for, but somehow Santa forgot to leave behind. YS drives off to the mall, looking to make exchanges and take advantage of the sales.

Dad? He’s off to work, and glad of it!

Magic 4

Deborah of Humble Housewife fame tagged me with a meme, so here goes:

What 4 jobs have I had?

1. clerk in a dry goods store;

2. telephone directory assistance operator (on the night shift and so long ago that if a pervert called in to whisper nasty things and we hung up on him, he got his dime back from the phone booth);

3. magazine editor (got me through college) and finally,

4. the job I have now, designing pages for the Miami Herald. I’ve built pages since the move away from hot lead to cast type. First it was what’s called cold type, meaning the text came printed out on long sheets. We used razors to cut them and wax the back sides so we could place them on cardboard “pages” that were turned into negatives in the camera room. Now it’s all digital: I build pages on a computer and a processer spits out the actual plate for the pressroom.

4 places I’ve lived: (Can I include where I plan to live?)

We moved all over when I was kid, but my favorite place to live was Alabama. Went with family to Miami, and then lived in Colorado Springs for a while.  Gort is where I want to live when we retire!

4 places on holiday:

Cancun, Mexico, the week that Club Med opened up there: fantastic beaches and food!!!! 

Ireland, on my first visit that charmed me forever,

Dublin on our honeymoon, after my mother-in-law scolded me for wanting to go away from hubby’s home place…I’ll never forget her saying, “What did ye expect to do?” 

Paris, with my then-nine-year-old, who managed to navigate the street maps when I got us lost. And dragged me up the eighty-nine steps to our hotel room. Another week, and I might have been back to my pre-kids weight!

4 favorite foods:

Like Deb, chocolate is one of the fab four.

Freshly baked bread, just out of the oven and only cooled enough to slice and have with butter and a cup of coffee

Then a mix of cabbage, carrots and white potato all mashed together

Finally, a lovely roast beef, sliced thin. Before cooking, I coat mine with sea salt to keep the juices in and reduce shrinkage. It leaves a lovely rime of salt just at the edge of each slice.

4 places I’d rather be:

Ireland, with all my friends there

Colorado with all its stunning scenery

Savannah in (North or South?) Carolina for its Old South architecture

New York for the shopping excursions

Okay, I am going to tag Aquaasho (has to be easier than running a marathon)