Saving the world, one comma at a time ...

Being a journalist is hard work. And unfortunately, shows like "Lois & Clark" don't do much to negate the stereotype that reporters strut into the newsroom in their designer suits, file their front-page story (on the investigation they completed in mere hours), and win a Pulitzer, while systematically saving the world/going on tirades/flirting with their partner.

Well, Mr. Kent, and Ms. Lane,
THIS is journalism.

Newspapers are a 365-day enterprise. People are always shocked when I say I have to work on Saturday. Seriously, who do they think puts out the Sunday paper? And no, I can't go to dinner and a movie on Friday night; there's that little thing called the Saturday paper. We work hours that aren't exactly conducive to having a social life, we get home when our spouses are asleep, and we spend our holidays writing cutlines on photos of Fourth of July fireworks over Lake Union and editing stories about Christmas on the front lines of the war instead of being with our families.

You have to edit stories you don't care whatsoever about (see "Cadillac worms" or "Enron"). You get sent to work in other departments where the pace and protocol are totally different. (Did I mention I'm in Sports all week?) You have to deal with reporters who think your sole purpose in life is to piss them off by having the audacity to call and ask for clarification on something in their story so they don't have to write a correction. You have to sit and watch the wires in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, fighting back tears as you read datelines on stories that are places where you stood just weeks earlier. You have to write the perfect headline on a story about infertility on the day you've come back from recovering from your miscarriage.

You have to be objective, or you could get fired. And trust me, on some days, that's no easy task, especially on hot-button issues. I don't really get hot and bothered about light rail or the Sonics moving to Oklahoma City, but there are certain topics that, only out of respect for my desire to be employed for another 25 years or so, I do not write headlines like "Stupid bitch sleeps off drunken stupor while baby she's lucky to have drowns in bathtub."

Not having a political identity -- or worse, having one that goes against the industry's norm -- can be very hard. I remember being back in Editorial this spring and two of the editors were talking about Obama and McCain, and they said, "Well, Jennifer's a McCain fan," and I was like, "Oh yeah? Who said that?" while looking around in fear that someone was about to appear and waterboard me for even acknowledging them.

They apparently could "just tell," (I am guessing only because I never join on their riotous Bush bashing/Democratic swoonfests, which, in my own defense, I could just be being quiet for the sake of having my paycheck signed off on by the News department) and then suggested I be McCain's running mate. Too bad I wasn't born here; I bet I'd bring in the pink vote, at least.

All this ranting to the contrary, I love it. Considering I'm not the most patient person, I like seeing tangible evidence of what I did all day when I wake up in the morning. I feel a real sense of pride when I see people reading the paper, or it's mentioned on TV or in a movie. (You should hear my reaction every time it's shown on "Grey's Anatomy.")

And, furthermore, it's the catalyst for two (technically unrelated) things I am very happy about right now.

Because of my schedule (in addition to my horrific hours, we get to choose vacation days by seniority, and some of the desk editors have been at the paper since before I was born), it's not easy taking a vacation. Add in the fact that between the high-school football he's covering and the college and pro football he's watching, my husband is pretty much MIA from the end of the August until Thanksgiving, and suddenly, we're staring at each other on opposite ends of the couch whining, "We never see each other, and we never go anywhere." (The latter complaint coming from me, a mere three weeks after returning from California.) Seriously, reporters and editors do not work the same hours, and it can be challenging at times. For those who know what I am talking about, "eight days, six hours, four minutes and two seconds" is an understatement at times.

So in order to beat the traditional cold weather/ holiday-stress meltdown, we decided to go to Las Vegas the weekend before Thanksgiving! We were going to go Sunday and come home Wednesday, but it was a mere $3 difference to stay a fourth night, so we'll be coming back Thursday morning -- just in time for me to go to work. Should make for an interesting offering to the desk's holiday dinner. Uh, I bought a can of cranberry sauce, but the TSA took it away. I LOVE Vegas, so I am thrilled to be going back (and yes, for those counting, that will make three times in less than 18 months, but what can I say, it's not too far, it's cost-effective, and it's warm!). I am SO excited to be staying at the very swanky Mandalay Bay. Look at me being a Desperate Housewife!

So, have I mentioned that being a journalist requires an ever-evolving work wardrobe? Uh, probably not, because actually, it doesn't. Just ask my boss, who wears jeans pretty much every day and makes fun of me for not owning any. (In my own defense, I looked at some at Nordstrom over the weekend, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it.) I got it stuck in my head that a journalist should dress like you-know-who, way back when, and while I don't wear suits or anything, I do dress up for work every day (except Saturday). I have more slacks, skirts and heels than I do khakis, T-shirts and sneakers. Most of the clothes I buy are for work, and then I complain on my days off that I have nothing to wear. You'd think I'd have learned by now.

Anyway, I fell in love with this Calvin Klein wool wrap coat during the Nordstrom Anniversary Sale, and my very nice husband decided to buy it for my upcoming birthday (despite me feeling bad for 15 seconds that I was basically telling him what to buy me this year and not giving him any creative liberties). It isn't hard to figure out why I wanted it so bad -- to quote my fabulous friend Clem, "It looks like you stole it from Lois' closet."

Hey, I deserve it. After all, being a journalist is hard work!