Ahhh. Memorial Day weekend approaches. What will I do with my three-day-weekend? I should take a beach getaway! Or maybe go visit my mom! Or maybe-
Oh wait. I work Monday. Of course. Because it’s a holiday, and journalists don’t get those days off. How silly of me.
I don’t know what it’s like for production folks (like myself) but I’ve heard it said that in most TV markets, the holidays are actually a pretty joyous occasion for the on air staff. If there are even newscasts at all (which there might not be, say, on Christmas when the station could just run re-runs of Christmas specials or whatever) the seasoned anchors get the day off and the young, fresh-faced, up-and-coming reporters get to fight over the anchor desk for one day. One lucky choice reporter gets to anchor that day, meaning he or she snags some material for a resume tape and the anchor who’s been at the station for 30-some years gets to spend the day away from work enjoying quality time with his or her family.
Can you guess where I’m going with this?
That ain’t the way we do it, kid.
All of our shows must (for some crazy unknown reason) go on. Regular anchors anchor. Reporters report. Producers produce. Directors direct.
Now, don’t fret. Not everyone works each holiday. But everyone works holidays. Does that makes sense? There is a trade off. If we’re scheduled to work Memorial Day (like yours truly) then we get the July 4th holiday off (which is actually Monday, July 5th.) Seems like a nice nod, right? A consolation of sorts? But I think it really isn’t. And here’s why: we get paid time and a half on the holidays and our station is too bloody cheap to afford to pay everyone overtime each holiday. I truly believe that if the money was there, we’d all be here each and every holiday. I truly and honestly believe that.
Because our work is our life. And that is that.
But hey! Monday, July 5th is the day after I get back from my week in Illinois for Cornerstone! So that’s neat!









the perfect wife?
It’s not anyone’s fault but my own, but since getting married nine months ago I’ve created some sort of perfect wife criteria that I’m a slave to. The standard to which I now compare myself goes a little something like this: 5’7″, tan, 100 lbs, constantly working out, amazing cook, incredible decorator, frequent entertainer, immaculate housekeeper, who never gets angry, and is a GODDESS in the sack. Kind of like this:
at your service.
But my harsh reality is this: a girl who is 5’5.5″, not-so-tan, wayyyyyy more than 100 lbs, a horrible cook, much too busy (or lazy?) to clean, who gets frustrated and agitated and whiny and pissy and hormonal on a weekly basis.
wah wah wahhhh.
I’m trying lots of different things in my ongoing quest to attain my unattainable standard of kick-ass-wifedom. Firstly, I’ve reached out to a few friends to try and learn how to cook. As delicious as my staples are (i.e. Kraft macaroni and cheese, instant rice with butter and salt, and canned soup) one can only subject one’s husband to them so many times in a healthy marriage.
Sunday night Dan and I went over to our friend Randy’s house and he and I tag-teamed a delicious oil-based pasta with chicken, bell peppers, onions, asparagus, sundried tomatoes, roma tomatoes, and feta cheese. I wish I would have taken a picture for you. But just use your imagination. We boiled the pasta in half water half vegetable broth with a sprinkle of thyme, which is something I’ve never even considered when boiling pasta. The best I’ve done before is add oil and salt. Bleh. The boiling concoction gave the noodles so much flavor that I could have just eaten them by themselves and been satisfied. We stir-fried the veggies (while we baked the chicken with onions) with oil, minced garlic (I MINCED GARLIC!) and cooking sherry for 25ish minutes, and added in the chicken when it was done baking.
Then we threw it all together in a big pot with the pasta, added the roma tomatoes and the feta on top, and ate and ate and ate.
DANG IT WAS GOOD.
Randy and I will continue our cooking classes. Next up? Salmon. Stay tuned.
Tonight, ALL BY MYSELF, I am taking a shot at marinated chicken. I took two frozen chicken breasts, put them in tin foil and doused them with zesty italian dressing. I folded the foil all up into tight little chickenfoilpouches and put them in the fridge to thaw. Tonight, I will bake the chicken, and I’ll let you know how that goes. My friend Kathleen (who happens to be an amazing cook and one of those women who I feel effortlessly blows the almighty kick-ass-wife away) and I are going to tackle some recipes as well. I’m excited, but also very scared. This experiment is going to be like watching a newborn baby learn how to tie its mother’s shoes. Not impossible, but HIGHLY improbable.
For those of you who were concerned, I don’t plan on blogging about my quest to become a goddess in the sack. Just FYI.
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