Ah, the Raging Wolf River

Well, we survived. Barely. But we did, and it was grand.

Only we:

–Would pretend we’re hosting a “cooking” show about how to mix cocktails. (We were making summer hummers in Nalgene bottles. Reeeeal complicated. ) We included — in our show — how to make ice, how to shake a “shaker” and how to cound the vodka “glugs” by chimpanzees. (One chimpanzee, two chimpanzee….)

–Could get lost going there, for the third year in a row. (There were even two OTHER sets of directions in Em’s glovebox.)

–Would stop at a watering hole in Mukwa (yeah, that’s right, Mukwa) to ask for directions.

–Can curse at ourselves when we realize just how wrong mapquest directions are.

–Would use bright-pink duct tape to strap on our flip-flops. I mean, the river bottom is grooooss.

–Would hop in the river only to have Em’s Nalgene bottle take a plunk in the river and float 25 feet downstream. We really thought that thing was gone forever. Don’t worry, we swam…and grabbed it. That was a perfectly good drink, nearly wasted. I really have never laughed so hard, maybe ever.

–Would make fun of people. Mainly “tweens” who are horribly uneducated. Socially. I wanted to punch them.

–Would stop BACK at the bar that gave us directions… for a nightcap. At four in the afternoon. We had bloody marys. They were deeelish.

–Would open the windows the whole way home and rock out to great songs like Miley Cyrus’s “7 Things I Hate About You.” and “Love the One You’re With.” We play some meeean drums and guitar.

–Would get to Em’s house, only to have another bloody mary. 20 minutes before we’re due at a Pampered Chef party.

–Would go to the party, and drink more. Wine. Good wine. And eat snacks.

–Would still talk about maybe going out after said party…. but reluctantly make the decision to just go home afterwards.

–Would have so much fun.

I heart my Emmy.

If We Go Missing, Please Read.

Ok, so, Em and I are venturing to New London…here in WI. What’s there, you might ask?  Tubing down the Wolf River. After last month’s flooding, I’m sure the river is damn-near raging with water that’s up to my eyeballs. Tubing down that river is like floating down the Lazy River at Noah’s Ark. Except the Wolf is about 3 hours longer, you can BYOB, the water is dirtier and sometimes, if the water levels are too low, you bust your ass (literally) on the big boulders on the river’s bottom.

I’ve got my duct tape packed (to strap-up our crappy flip-flops to our feet. Who wants to touch all that gross-ness?), my Wyler’s mix (to go with our vodka), a towel and my sunglasses. Oh buddy. I’m excited.

But yeah, in the event that Em and I, perhaps, lose our way (what? we were supposed to go left at the fork in the river. Ah, hell.)… please let people know that we’re down the Wolf River somewhere. I’m sure it goes south, to like, Texas or something. (Hello, Dolly?!)

I’ll have a full report coming up.

I Don’t Care How Often He Struck Out Last Season

Dear Billy Hall,

You RULE this season. Just so you know, you’re my boyfriend. I have an everyday boyfriend, but he knows about us… so, no biggie there.

I will continue to wear my Hall shirt loud and proud.

Keep jackin’ homers in the 10th inning to help seal-up victories.

But could ya maybe stop chewing? It’s gross. Sunflower seeds, gum? Anything but sick chewing tobacco.

Either way, keep proving to all those turds that you deserve to play in the majors.

Rarr.

XOXO, me

Don’t Drink the Water.

I drive by it several times a day. The city pool. It’s always kid-infested with all those uppity-moms who don’t work because their husbands are stock brokers or neurosurgeons who make a gazillion dollars a year. I digress.

Well, a gal-pal from work also lives in the Ville. We always talk about the pool. But I’ve never been to/in it. Well, we took the plunge, literally. Named a time and a date — and did it.

So, I stock up my pool bag: Magazines, SPF 45 sunscreen, my headset, sunglasses and a bottle of water.

We meet up, nab us some most-uncomfortable chairs and begin the laying-out process. Sweet. It’s 264 degrees out. Don’t worry, it was the heat, not the humidity. I obviously start sweating, instantly.

Well, we need to go in the pool. Too bad the only section that wasn’t hopping with minis was an area as big as a toilet. So, we squeeze in, really…squeeze. I know we’re in a pool, but kids that splash irritate me. However, I’ve learned just to splash back. Then, it was time to go under. The whole time, all I could think about was how much PEE was inside this massive, well, toilet. I dunked myself in the water (damn, it felt good) and come up… only to see…. A FLOATING BANDAID. Gag!!! Gross!!

I dodged that, a floaty ring and some loose hairs, probably from some girl’s head. Blech.

But ya know what, I had a splendid time, bandaids and all.

Got some sun, got to know my work gal-pal a little better and got to make some pool dates for the future, too.

But the next time, I’m bringing my goggles, because apparently all the kids have them, really. All the kids did.

Oh, also, I’ll be bringing more than a dollar in my wallet. Because the pool sells ice cream. More specifically, ChocoTacos.

Yum.

Plays Well With Others…Today.

So, I’ve been at my job here in MKE for 9 months. Obviously, a yearly review makes sense. (No.) But I had one. Apparently everyone has one. Once a year. Makes sense. So, first, I fill out a form. Gloating about my strengths and making that “Could improve on…” section a liiiittle smaller.  Finally, the review happens. Of course, I go into my EP’s office, sweating. (Yeah, it was like 70 degrees in the room. I could sweat in an igloo.) thinking about what could possibly be on the “manager’s” portion of that review. What — it’s two pages? Are you kidding me?! I haven’t even been here that long to make that many mistakes. Good Lord.

Alright, so we start. He reads, and I read-along. Just like 2nd grade. Of course, I read ahead. (I gotta get to the part where they say, “Where would you like those unemployment checks to go? Because we’re firing you.”)

That part never came. Really. Not to pat myself on the back, but hot damn!

The review, overall, was glowing. Apparently, I’m a quick learner who takes control of her newscast and works well with directors, fellow producers and anchors. Score!

What a great day.

So, that was Sunday.

Bring on Monday. Shit, I’m a good producer, I can handle anything. They know I’m competent. Sweet.

So, that Monday 11am show. It’s got nothin’ on me. Until there’s a last-minute 10am news conference on a quadruple homicide. Oh, and then at 10:35am, Midwest announces it’s cutting 1,200 jobs. What? We need phoners off the top of the show with anyone who knows anything about Midwest? Cool. I’ll just pull those out of my tail.

Seriously, my newscast was spiraling out of control before I even walked into the booth. Good thing I wore flats to work. So, the show starts. Rocky right off the bat. I’ve got a fill-in director… and I’m scampering around the set and control room like this was my first show, ever.

I swear, every segment, was a train wreck. The only part of the show that was clean were about the last 15 seconds of the show. And that’s only because it was a fun light-hearted story about puppies and squirrels mating. (Ok, that wasn’t it, but you get my drift.)

Granted, Average Joe viewer wouldn’t know if it was a clean show or not, but I knew. So did the anchors, and the News Director… oh, and the Assistant News Director. Don’t worry, they were all in the post-show meeting.

I took credit for my mistakes (Lord knows there was a laundry list of them.), but I also made sure to point out how crazy it was — and that really, I am a producer capable of handling breaking news.

Now, I am tired, and worn out and I want nothing more than to just sit at my computer after the show and mill over how crappy everything was.

Really, that’s what producers do. We mill. I thought about that show for several hours after it happened. It’s life.

Then, I get called back into the Asst. ND’s office. Great, I’m getting demoted to “cigarette butt cleaner-upper.” Or maybe my job would now be to just make coffee. Or clean the fridge. (Shudder)

But no, in the calmest voice, he asks, “Are you OK?”

(In my mind) “OF COURSE I’M NOT OK. DID YOU SEE THAT SHOW? HORRIFIC. I SHOULDN’T EVEN BE ABLE TO CALL MYSELF A PRODUCER.”

(Out loud) sobbing. “It’s just… I’m tired, the director, me, the breaking news… everything. It was just a train wreck. I couldn’t wait for the hour to end.”

He follows up with: “We know you’re capable, you’ve proven that to us, so don’t worry… just next time, don’t be afraid to ask for help.”

“Help? But I feel like a chicken shit who can’t finish up things herself.”

He says, “Don’t be a martyr, there are plenty of people around to give you a hand. Just know that.”

Lesson learned.

I don’t have to be a martyr. At least not in those station walls.

Good news is, I didn’t have to rip that job review I just had gotten back the day before.

Funny how much things can whirlwind out of control in just mere hours.

I should keep that thing in my purse, just incase a day like Monday ever happens again.

Giggles: Part II.

How people stumbled upon this site:

+ How to make a pair of pants out of beer boxes

+ Maui melon mint + alcohol 

+ Filling bobber on sewing machine

Man, I’m not quite sure they found any of the answers they were looking for. (Pants out of beer boxes? Hmm. I hated Maui Mint… and the sewing machine, well, it’s still collecting dust on my kitchen table.) But hopefully, they clicked on the link and were entertained on the brief diversion from their search.

This Week’s Fling.

Food I can’t get enough of: “Blasted” Goldfish. Cheddar, Pizza, Jalapeno Cheddar, it doesn’t matter. Blast it and I’m in love.

Song I bounce around-to in my car: I Kissed a Girl. Kate Perry rules.

Show I’m in love with: Hopkins. On ABC. Watch it.

Conspiracy theory that’s sure to catch on: The fact that Cinco, the racing Brewers Chorizo never wins. Yet, the damn thing wins on the 4th of July. Really, really?

Latest act of stubbornness: Not turning the A/C on in the apt. I sweat. A lot. But I’m savin’ money in the process. Booyah.

Recently tried recipe I could eat all day: Honey Butter Sweet Potatoes. There’s actually no butter in these. EVOO, honey, cinnamon, S & P, and the sweet pots. I mean, honestly. These things are like dessert. I could put them on ice cream. That’s how good they are.

I Did It.

I have found something that can bring the masses together. There’s no arguing, no pushing, no bad-mouthing. Just applause, and sometimes…pure silence.

Fireworks.

Tuck and I walked down to the lake front after taking in Jazz in the Park (By the way, coolest thing EVER.) We mosey-ed there, threw down our UW-SP jersey blanket and watched some pretty wicked fireworks. I mean, I couldn’t get over it. Everyone, crammed on the grass. Not bitching about taking “their patch of grass” or how chilly it was outside or when they were going to be able to answer that all-important e-mail. I mean, really… I just looked around and couldn’t have been happier with the Human Race right there.

I don’t know. Maybe it’s the whole Independence Day, or all the beer they consumed earlier in the day… either way, it was really awesome. People clapping for fireworks, people sitting with friends, family, lovers… and doing just that, sitting.

It really restored my faith in us Humans. Good thing, because my “stash” of Human points was gettin’ pretty thin.

A Whole Damn Week.

Sorry, it really has been a long time since I’ve posted. I feel like I’ve been busy with a lot of things… but really, no. Just lazy. My apologies.

Let’s just get this whole “holiday weekend” crap out of the way. I’m not going to tell you all the details…oh wait, I can.

I worked. All. Weekend. Long. I worked on the 4th (10.5 hours), the 5th (9.5 hours) and the 6th (8 hours). I mean, really. How much more lame can we get here?! I guess that’s the beauty death of news. It doesn’t stop. (But couldn’t they throw up a repeat of American Idol, a re-run of fireworks from the night before… heck, even a Christmas Parade from ‘06??)

So, to everyone who had a three-day weekend, good for you. Hope you got burnt.

To Whom This Concerns:

I’m going to Summerfest tomorrow, Wednesday. Please, I pray on all that’s holy that I do not see the following:

–Fat, hairy, shirtless men…or women for that matter.

–Middle-aged women who are wearing booty shorts, low-cut shirts, and wedges.

–Teenagers who aren’t old enough to smoke, holding a cigarette to “look cool.” (You make me gag.)

–People making out on a bench.

–Anyone I graduated high school with.

–Ex-boyfriends.

–Fanny packs. On men, women, kids…it doesn’t matter. Leave them at home.

–Mullets, Aqua Net-inspired looks, mesh tank tops, and cut-off jean shorts.

–Couples wearing the same outfit. (You know, like at Great America.)

Wishful thinking, right?

I know. I’m well aware.

A girl can dream, can’t she.

If you need me tomorrow, I’ll be walking the Big Gig grounds, sunglasses on, making fun of people. Because obviously I’m perfect and can do that, all while feeling better about myself. Oh, and I’m snarky.