In crisis of concerns
I have a bedding crisis.
(OK, maybe too harsh.)
I have a bedding concern.
(I’ve got all sorts of “concerns” currently.)
I have a down comforter. For nights like last night, when it was rainy and cool and the house got into the lower 60s, it was great. Saturday night, when it was hot, I was uncomfortable.
I have a down comforter.
That’s it. Nothing else in the closet to cover up with.
I need a quilt. Or a coverlet. Or a Matelasse (WTF?).
But a quilt is about the last thing I want to drop $$$ on.
Same goes for sheets. I’ve got two sets (I finally found the other non-flannel set in a tote in the garage) of cotton sheets.
A friend said I could babysit her spare quilt, but it’s floral.
(I have nothing against flowers – big fan – but on my bed? I dunno. Kinda says I'm a little too in touch with my feminine side. Can’t look a gift horse in the mouth, right?)
It’s a stupid thing to be concerned about, but there I was yesterday scanning the Internets for hot deals on quilts.
I’ve got to get off the sauce. I’m no alcoholic by any stretch, but even a beer or a glass of wine during weekday nights hampers my ability to shape up.
I recently was asked to climb Mt. Shasta for the “Go Red for Women Campaign.” They really want me to go.
It’s June 8-9.
From May 17-29, I’ll be in the Midwest, elevation 1,201 feet above sea level – but flat. Very, very flat.
I need 15 days of altitude training – and no sauce – before I fly out.
And my expanding social circle keeps me engaged in conversation, camaraderie (and booze).
I don’t want to give up Wednesday nights at the pub. I don't want to give up going out at all.
I just have to drink water or an alternative, non-alcoholic beverage, when I'm out.
And, of course, I screwed up royally with the director of the campaign. It was explained to me as a climb for cancer. I wrote a very passionate letter on why I wanted to go (and have my climbing fees comped).
It’s a climb to bring awareness to women and heart disease.
Fuck me.
They still want me to go – sponsored and all – to write about it.
I just don’t know if I can be ready. It’s 7,000 vertical feet of climbing to the top, at 14,162 feet.
Finally, I’m about to walk into the boss’ office and lay down a mighty huge bitch.
(OK, I woke up full of piss and vinegar; I have begun to temper myself with a third cup of coffee.)
It concerns me that “we” keep trying to report the news, but include the line, “Blah Blah did not return a telephone call seeking comment.”
Oh, that bugs the living shit out of me.
Because it says to the reader, “I was too fucking lazy to actually leave the office and go seek a comment.”
I’m old school when it comes to my profession. You know, I actually interview people face-to-face. And write what they say into a cool little notebook that fits into the back pocket of your trousers.
But is it my place to bitch?
It is another concern. I’m sure the editor probably doesn’t want to hear from me that some of the reporters are lazy sots.
But then again, I’ve been doing this for 22 years now, and 10 at this newspaper.
Maybe I’m exactly the guy to speak up.
Because, you know, I create my own mayhem.
(OK, maybe too harsh.)
I have a bedding concern.
(I’ve got all sorts of “concerns” currently.)
I have a down comforter. For nights like last night, when it was rainy and cool and the house got into the lower 60s, it was great. Saturday night, when it was hot, I was uncomfortable.
I have a down comforter.
That’s it. Nothing else in the closet to cover up with.
I need a quilt. Or a coverlet. Or a Matelasse (WTF?).
But a quilt is about the last thing I want to drop $$$ on.
Same goes for sheets. I’ve got two sets (I finally found the other non-flannel set in a tote in the garage) of cotton sheets.
A friend said I could babysit her spare quilt, but it’s floral.
(I have nothing against flowers – big fan – but on my bed? I dunno. Kinda says I'm a little too in touch with my feminine side. Can’t look a gift horse in the mouth, right?)
It’s a stupid thing to be concerned about, but there I was yesterday scanning the Internets for hot deals on quilts.
I’ve got to get off the sauce. I’m no alcoholic by any stretch, but even a beer or a glass of wine during weekday nights hampers my ability to shape up.
I recently was asked to climb Mt. Shasta for the “Go Red for Women Campaign.” They really want me to go.
It’s June 8-9.
From May 17-29, I’ll be in the Midwest, elevation 1,201 feet above sea level – but flat. Very, very flat.
I need 15 days of altitude training – and no sauce – before I fly out.
And my expanding social circle keeps me engaged in conversation, camaraderie (and booze).
I don’t want to give up Wednesday nights at the pub. I don't want to give up going out at all.
I just have to drink water or an alternative, non-alcoholic beverage, when I'm out.
And, of course, I screwed up royally with the director of the campaign. It was explained to me as a climb for cancer. I wrote a very passionate letter on why I wanted to go (and have my climbing fees comped).
It’s a climb to bring awareness to women and heart disease.
Fuck me.
They still want me to go – sponsored and all – to write about it.
I just don’t know if I can be ready. It’s 7,000 vertical feet of climbing to the top, at 14,162 feet.
Finally, I’m about to walk into the boss’ office and lay down a mighty huge bitch.
(OK, I woke up full of piss and vinegar; I have begun to temper myself with a third cup of coffee.)
It concerns me that “we” keep trying to report the news, but include the line, “Blah Blah did not return a telephone call seeking comment.”
Oh, that bugs the living shit out of me.
Because it says to the reader, “I was too fucking lazy to actually leave the office and go seek a comment.”
I’m old school when it comes to my profession. You know, I actually interview people face-to-face. And write what they say into a cool little notebook that fits into the back pocket of your trousers.
But is it my place to bitch?
It is another concern. I’m sure the editor probably doesn’t want to hear from me that some of the reporters are lazy sots.
But then again, I’ve been doing this for 22 years now, and 10 at this newspaper.
Maybe I’m exactly the guy to speak up.
Because, you know, I create my own mayhem.
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