Taking one for the team

My second column came out last week. It was about "boomerang kids," a.k.a adult children who move back home.

I cringed a bit as I wrote it, picturing angry old men reading my words, shaking their heads, and saying "lazy kids these days just can't stop mooching off their parents."

But the reception was positive, thank god, although also a little... strange.

The next morning I got a few emails thanking me for writing the column, which was very appreciated, and made the mild amount of humiliation I suffered through writing it worthwhile.

A few hours later I got a call from an unrecognizable number. Turned out it was a suitor who read my column, saw my photo, thought we might get along and wanted to ask me out on a date.

I didn't know what to do. This conversation was taking place at noon, at work, in front of several cube mates.

Partially because I admired him for taking the risk, and partially, honestly, because I thought it would be a good story to tell, I said yes.

I have since been assured by another reporter who knows this man that he is not a stalker, felon, or weirdo with any sort of questionable past.

Tuesday night is the night. We'll be meeting in a very public place.

Is this stupid? I don't know.

I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.

Homage to my favorite Swede

I made my first foray into column writing today, and the results were mixed: while the women in the newsroom gave me kudos, the men in the newsroom told me that the column's premise (that women and men can be platonic friends) and the conclusion (that those friendships can endure after one friend marries) were total sh@$#%@.

I remain a true believer in the premise. As for the conclusion, well, I'll take a leap of faith.

DC friends: Please excuse my hyperbole. Tribes can last forever, in one form or another. Also, Josef would like me to clarify that he only once agonized over the title on his business cards.

Fort Wayne friends: I understand you may have missed this column in print, having mistaken my photo for one of a bloated chipmunk. Forgiven. Whatever you do, just please don’t tell me it looks like me.

Miss Positivity

Sorry for the month-long absence.

I've been anguishing over my article draft. And I may have been suffering from a case of the "winter-never-ends-here-crap-there-may-be-no-newspapers-tomorrow" blues.

I have, however, taken steps to address my condition: I'm habla-ing Espanol every Miércoles at my local community college, dragging my body to yoga twice a week, and finding creative ways to convince people at the newspaper to be my friend (I've found emails with subject lines like "Wanna grab lunch? I need some friends" to be very effective.)

I've even changed my blog title to reflect my new-found sense of positivity (and because some Hoosiers found the old title, "Grounded in God's Country," offensive. I'm sorry! It's not the Wayne. It's me!)

For those I haven't told: Last week, the Journal Gazette publisher announced that staff needed to take a six percent pay-cut to avoid lay-offs.

The atmosphere inside the newsroom is morose, yet I remain undaunted.

Who needs a journalism career when you can be a full-time nose model? During a sneezing photo-shoot a few weeks back, I may have found my other calling.

In other news:

My bedroom has been invaded by hoards of orange, lady bug-like insects that land on my face at night, crawl in the sheets, procreate constantly and never die. I've started to vacuum the floor every few days to curb the population; Darlyn is enjoying a few mid-day snacks. Neither extermination method has been particularly effective.

Otherwise, life ticks on as usual at the Haynie Writing Retreat/B&B.

The owners leave tomorrow to go to Florida for two weeks, so Darlyn and I may throw an evening bash: a few bottles of Pinot Noir, crackers and Camembert, Alaskan salmon dog treats.

We'll keep you posted.

Turning 29: The perfect weekend itinerary

Take Friday off.

Wake up, get a massage, drive to Indy. Meet with the editor of Indianapolis Monthly during the day, meet with close high school friends at night. Drink three glasses of red wine, and far too many glasses of sangria with your tapas. Catch a Michael Jackson cover band at The Vogue, and let four Red Bull & Vodkas get you moving. Move well until you hit the pavement on the way back to your friend's car. Pretend no one saw. Go to bed.

Wake up, hydrate, drive to Bloomington. Meet with a favorite high school buddy and her husband during the day, have far too much food with them at a trendy cafe at night. Drink wine, talk writing. Drink more wine, talk relationships and old houses and Ghana and mothers and Christians and yoga. Eat so much chocolate you begin to feel sick. Go to bed.

Wake up, hydrate, drive home. Crack the windows and blare the radio. Croon with the Top 20 crooners until your cell phone rings, and you tell someone far away what a wonderful weekend it's been.

And surprise, surprise...

I will not be moving to a remote oil and gas town in northwestern New Mexico.

This is not, as some surmised, because I couldn't get a good bagel on Sunday.

Rather, it was because I wouldn't have been Ms. Navajo—a dream of mine since, well, about three weeks ago.

I could have covered the reservation every now and then, but for the most part I would have been a city and county government reporter. Nothing wrong with that; it just wasn’t enough to lure me there.

I hit it off with an attractive, mountain man photographer, but he didn't quite tip the balance. Everyone else on the staff was either in a serious relationship or married.

And there were other troubling signs: restaurant choices were Mexican, Mexican or Mexican, and the nearest department store was three hours away. I was told housing could be hard to find, but there was a never a shortage of trailers. And one editor, with whom I would have been working closely, mentioned she once joined a polygamous cult.

Oh, and when I visited, an editor sent me 45 minutes away to do an article on Durango, Colorado’s annual Wedding Expo. Every time I approached a vendor for an interview, they’d say, “Congrats! When’s the date?”

If there is a God, he gave me a little wink.

Good thing I skipped out on those Super Bowl parties...

Although let's be honest, I was only looking forward to the food.

So I just finished a draft. Four months, and far, far too many words later, and I actually wrote a conclusion to my novella of a draft.

I have this very strange feeling in my stomach...

Twenty minutes ago, when I knew this was going to happen, I went into my family room, kissed my parents on the cheek, and told them they were great. (Note to self: this should be done more often, not only when you finish 40-page drafts).

I think parts of the draft really bite, and it's far too long, but at least I've got something to work with. (Ben S.: Are you ready for this baby? Begin to prepare yourself. Although I think it needs a week of editing before it's ready for you.)

My guy is in the hospital again, by the way. I'm going to see him tomorrow.

This has all been so strange and rather sad...