So you want to change the world?

Last night, Chris and I got into a friendly sparring match about who was a better journalist when we met in 1996. I maintain it was me because he didn't even want to go into reporting at that point, whereas I was deadset on becoming the next Lois Lane. He wanted to be Super Sportscaster or something along those lines. So I went and found all four years worth of my issues of our high-school paper. Between his hard-hitting topics (school papers should look into corporate sponsorship) to mine (giving should last far past the holiday season), I can't believe one of us hasn't won the Pulitzer yet.

But in all seriousness, looking at those old newspapers made me feel nostalgic. After spending most of my childhood wanting to be a teacher, an accountant (not sure where that one came from considering my math skills aren't exactly stellar unless I am trying to quickly figure out 25 percent off a pair of shoes when I'm the next person in line at the register, and then I become awash with mathematical prowess) or a soap-opera star (I was picky; ABC soaps only), I became instantly and completely enamored with "Lois and Clark" at the end of sixth grade.

And thus, a journalist was born.

I was determined to become the next Mad Dog Lane, and there was no room for argument. Starting at the ripe old age of 12, my career was decided. (Technically, there was that very brief, fleeting moment in seventh grade when I wanted to be a cardiothoracic surgeon, but I think that had more to do with my crush on George Clooney when he was on "ER.") And I think being on my high-school newspaper really helped make that goal realistic. We'll call it realistic even though I am not an investigative reporter like she was; I don't have a death wish, and with my control issues and lack of patience (aka lack of tolerance for stupidity), I'd probably be dead by now.

It was actually on The Clover Leaves staff that Chris and I met. (I asked him for a pencil, and a tolo, a prom, two break-ups and 10 years later, we lived happily ever after.) He was editor for a year; I was for two. (Point to me on the "who's better" scale.) When he was editor, he demoted me from the lofty page-editor position to a measly copy editor. (Point to him, but I really should thank him.) He said in his farewell column that he didn't actually plan to become a journalist, (Ha!) but in my senior issue, two years later, I said by the time we reach our 10-year reunion, I wanted to have won a Pulitzer Prize for news editing, and own 200 pairs of shoes. And with my reunion a little more than two years away, I think I'm closer on the shoes, and I'm not even that close, since Coach purses have replaced Steve Madden as my great love.

Last month, my boss asked me to take a visiting high-school senior out for coffee and talk to her about journalism. She asked me lots of questions, including do I think the industry is dying (no), is editing hard (yes), do I like my job (very much) why do I like it (I love words, and if I'm being honest, I enjoy fixing other people's mistakes). And then she asked me why I wanted to be a journalist.

The irony of it all is that even after all these years, I want to be in this profession for the same reason I did when I was 12: Because I want to change the world. It was never about the press pass or the glamorous lifestyle (ha). Obviously, a journalist isn't going to change the world in the same way that lawmakers or humanitarians do. But I believe in the truth, and in the press' role as a gatekeeper. Like I told this girl, we're like surgeons, but with pens instead of scalpels. We pull back the flesh and expose things, and in the best-case scenario, we help get things fixed.

And as long as there are people who are willing to operate, I don't think journalism will die.

As for our little debate, at the end of the day, Chris is a better writer, and I'm a better editor. In short, we're equally good.

And since he doesn't read this, he doesn't need to know that I said that. After all, I do have a reputation to maintain. ;-)

My very own faustian bargain ...

Faustian: (adj.) Made or done for present gain without regard for future cost or consequences.

It's not every day that a blog entry comes complete with a vocabulary lesson, but this is pretty much how I can sum up how I'm feeling right now.

Getting through Friday was a like having a huge weight lifted off my chest. I'm not saying that it's going to be sunshine and rainbows every day, but all I can do is take things one day at a time. It's all that any of us can do. And the last few days haven't been too bad -- and I even say that coming off of a presidential primary, complete with election chart, which we all know is both the bane of my existence and my sole reason for living. Or so it seems.

But back to my Faustian bargain. Unlike the one that many of us are familiar with, mine has nothing to do with, uh, the newsroom supply closet. Come to think of it, The Times doesn't even have a supply closet; we have some lame supply file cabinet-type thing. Anyway, I think the term is applicable to my outlook these days because I have finally realized that I put myself in this position. No, not the six months of hell I have been through. Not the miscarriage, the failed attempts at getting pregnant and the general despondency.

I didn't truly know what I was getting into the moment I threw my birth-control pills away. All I could see was Pottery Barn Kids bedding and fancy strollers and murals spelling out our perfect names. I didn't think about the potential consequences of my baby-or-bust attitude. I tried to bargain with my ovaries -- and my emotions. And I ended up paying the price.

No one ever said the road to motherhood is easy.

But I'm up for the challenge.

And whereas getting out of bed was a challenge for a while, I feel okay these days. I'm relaxing -- as much as I relax -- by writing and cooking (I made the best soup ever!) and spending time with my husband. (And OK, plotting with the Evil League.)

I have come back to a quote from "My Sister's Keeper," a fabulous book I read in Las Vegas last month, several times lately: "If you want Superman to show up, first there's got to be someone worth saving."

I'm waiting, Superman. Come and get me.

A new day has come ...

"I feel so confused; losing something I never really had."
-- Lois Lane, "The Family Hour."

Is it possible to both dread and look forward to a day? Because if so, that would be today.

Today is my due date.

It's the day I never wanted to reach because it would remind me that I should be in Seattle right now, giving birth to my first child, rather than going to Seattle later today to write Newsline and read stories about the stock market. And it's the day I have looked forward to because once it passes, this book will be closed once and for all, and I will, God willing, be able to move on once and for all. I'll be able to look at the stroller in my garage (I wish I could figure out how to fold the damn thing up; it doesn't bode well for my parenting skills) and the book about bears and the stuffed cougar in the back of my closet without feeling regret ... or anger ... or sadness ... or all three, depending on the day. Some days, I'm totally fine. And on others, all I want to do is go back to bed.

Maybe I'll be able to watch the final disc of L&C Season 4 -- namely "The Family Hour" --without thinking about how I know exactly what Lois means -- and worrying that I'll never actually find what I lost.

And maybe I'll be able to listen to Celine Dion without getting teary. For the record, I don't usually cry over random Canadian singers. This one just happens to have a "cameo" in the tale of my fertility woes. We saw her perform in Las Vegas in June, shortly after I found out I was pregnant, and being the hormonal mess that all newly pregnant women are, I started crying about two seconds after she started to sing "A New Day Has Come."

Through the darkness and good times
I knew I'd make it through
And the world thought I had it all
But I was waiting for you

The day of ... well, let's just call it Black Tuesday, I was listening to that same song as I drove up to Swedish for my appointment.

Let the rain come down and wash away my tears
Let it fill my soul and drown my fears
Let it shatter the walls for a new sun
A new day has come

So this weekend, when I turned on the concert DVD for the first time, and I heard those haunting lyrics, I turned into a puddle of pink tears right there on the couch.

But the thing is, she's right.

A new day will come.

Add a drop of moderate white to Republican red, and you get ...

PINK!

It's election season. (Really?! No way!?!) Even people who don't care about politics are getting in on the act. Case in point, my dear sister, who went to see a certain presidential candidate speak in Seattle last night, got hand-selected to sit behind her on the stage, and ended up on the 11 o'clock news.

This is about how our phone conversation went:

Her: "I met Hillary! I shook her hand twice and she signed a poster for me!"

Me: "So? I met Dean Cain."

Her: "He's not going to be president."

Me: "Neither is she."

(See, I can be witty at 11:30 p.m. on five hours of sleep!)

The irony of it is that I actually have some interest in this election. It isn't Bush v. Global Warming or Bush v. Swiftboat. And three candidates are in town this week, and it would have been interesting to hear them speak.

But (heavy emphasis on but) the thing is, when you're a journalist, you can't go around waving campaign signs or attending rallies, or, if you really want to be picky, wearing red or blue on an election night. (I maintain my crimson sweater on Super Tuesday didn't count; I was supporting the COUGARS.)

And furthmore, you really can't talk about politics when you work at a newspaper. (And in a very liberal city, no less.) Not that I would, per se, because I think I'd get flogged.

It isn't easy being pink. ;-)

There are no easy questions ...

Someone posted an interesting question on the ficboard: What do you want to accomplish before you die? And maybe it's just me being me (read: over-analytical), but I seriously contemplated the question before I replied. It's the type of question to which there are two types of answers: legitimate answers -- and "I want to win an Academy Award" answers. Realistically, some of my answers may be more the latter than the former, but you just never know.

1. Have children.

2. Win the Pulitzer Prize. (Right after they create an editing category.)

3. Go back to India and see where I was born.

4. See the Cougars get to the national championship for football or basketball. (Hey, it would boost my chances of #1 if Chris was in *that* good of a mood!)

5. See the Eiffel Tower. (No, the one in Las Vegas doesn't count. Not that it wasn't lovely.)

6. Meet my childhood hero. (One half of Lane and Kent down; the other half to go!)

7. Become the editor of a major metropolitan newspaper.

8. Get back to the weight I was when I met Chris. (And yes, that was 11 1/2 years ago, for those counting.) I have a feeling having H.G. Wells show up and take me back to 1996 is more realistic, but too bad. It's MY list.

9. Be published. And not just in my newspaper.

10. Buy at least one pair of killer shoes, like Manolo Blahniks or Jimmy Choos. (Oh yeah, and make it up the stairs to the newsroom without breaking both ankles and any other body parts.)

Down came the rain ... or is it snow?

It's finally February. I honestly didn't know if I would make it through the holidays without losing it. It was a lot of stress and a lot of bittersweet memories. Thankfully, we planned some fun things to do in January and that took my mind off things. We went to Las Vegas for a long weekend, and it was a lot of fun. We stayed at the MGM Grand, which ensured we did a lot of walking to get anywhere, but since it was about 60-65 every day, we didn't mind. Especially since it was 30 and rainy in Seattle. We had some great food (Emeril's!), some drinks (I am officially in love with pomegranate martinis and the "Pinking Think" at the HRC), saw some celebs, did some shopping (Tiffany!) ... it was really nice.

The following weekend, we flew out to Pullman to watch the Cougars stomp the Ducks. Aside from almost dying in the rental car (Saturn + black ice + highway = bad combination), we had a lot of fun and hit up all of our old hot spots, including The Emerald and Sella's.

We'll be going down to Corvallis to watch the Cougars play the Beavers on Valentine's Day (the things we do for love), and I'm keeping busy with work, writing and looking forward to my next vacation. Watch out, L.A., the Evil League is on the way! ;-)