Look, Mom! I went to a journalism conference!

Last Saturday I was fortunate enough to go to the Society of Professional Journalists conference in Eugene, Ore. I was eager to go, knowing I would learn something essential to my career. Plus, I really wanted to check out the UofO campus.
Unfortunately, the early hours of the first meeting left me with my head nodding, and the only thing that could keep my focus was former Senatorial candidate Steve Novick's tiny, tiny feet swinging in the air.

He's short. Really, really short. I had to try not to marvel at him extreme tininess, and how people fawned all over his squat little frame. To be fair, I voted for Novick in the primaries, I like him. I just had no idea he was practically a midget. I think I like him more now. Especially because watching his feet swing a foot above the air as he sat across from me was hilariously amusing.

By noon I was fully functional and eagerly listening to a panel of freelance journalists. I was disappointed to learn that I would probably have to get a real job if I wanted to solely freelance. I can't work a real job. It will kill me. But hopefully I can be a reporter and freelance on the side.
All in all, every speaker loved their job, and loved writing. That is the kind of career I am looking for. I found Saturday to be reaffirming, and a good deal of fun.

On bras and breast cancer

Last week was so exciting I nearly peed my pants. Daily.
By the time Wednesday morning arrived, I woke up early, and took off to school. I had to see how my first cover design printed.
There it was, glowing like a beacon of pink and red, the paper was on full display.
I was still a little shy about a bra, my bra, on the cover, and worried about why people would think.
"What if the distributor is a prude and places them upside down?" I had worried all week.
But there it was, and the rack below was already empty. I focused my eyes on what I was seeing, my pink bra was everywhere! My bra passed me in the hall, the bathroom, on the stairs, in the elevator. My bra graced the back table of my journalism class as I walked in. "Glorious," I thought, "Truly glorious."
I knew the cover had done it's job. People were reading our newspaper, and most importantly, they were reading the valuable information on breast cancer inside. I hope this issue informs even one more person.
And, for every day this week, I get to see unknown men man-handle my bra.

It's called globophobia, thank you very much

So recently my up-beat female co-worker decided to redecorate our office. Streamers criss-crossed throughout the room, and moody dark Halloween balloons were taped to each computer moniter. A standard decorating job to celebrate the holiday.
But not to me. As soon as I walked through the door my eyes saw one thing: BALLOONS. They were everywhere. They were taped to my desk. What this some kind of sick joke? I looked around for my sisters, sure that they had told everyone my secret, traveled hundreds of miles, and set this up.
But no, everything was as usual to everyone else.
"Perhaps they won't notice my ghostly palor and deer-in-headlights look the next few days..."
I told myself, having decided to just keep it a secret and hope for the best.
Things rarely work out for the best for me, and so within minutes my editor had grabbed a balloon, began rubbing it, and then threatened to pop it.
It was over. I assumed the fetal position and covered my head, waiting for the inevitable burst of the balloon popping.
It didn't come. What did come was the hilarious laughter as everyone figured out my little secret: I'm terrified of balloons. Yep, it's called globophobia, thank you very much, and I can't help it. Balloons make me squirm, they are like nails on chalkboard, only worse because with balloons you get the anxiety of them popping. But after years of my older sister terrorizing me with balloons, I have a full-blown neurotic fear of those latex bastards.
Thanks to the World Wide Web, I found numerous message boards full of people with the same horrible fear as mine. Apparently, as funny as it is, it's also somewhat common. Globophobics unite!
Can't think of anyone you know whose afraid of balloons? How about Oprah Winfrey? I remember watching her show years ago, feeling sane for the first time because she too, is terrified of balloons. Her entire staff knows not to decorate with balloons if she will be there. And, like the staff in my office, they found out after generously decorating with them.
Fortunately for me, the balloons came down in the office and my co-workers were kinder than I expected. In other words, I wasn't chased around with a balloon and needle like my sister used to do. I think humans might be nicer than I expect...

I want to see Religulous, too!

I was so excited to find out Bill Maher had made a movie, and one about my favorite subject (besides hating Sarah Palin), at that.

Off I went to www.regmovies.com, the home page for the only major movie provider in my region, Regal Cinemas. I happily clicked on the link to the movie, watched the trailer with some friends, and entered my zip code to get the movie times in my area...

......And Regal thinks everyone wants to see Beverly Hills Chihuahua.

Regal Cinemas has a bad habit of not playing anything but the the most inane, simple-minded crap produced. I remember when Larry the Cable Guy played for almost two months here, but in the meantime quality films and documentaries fell by the way-side.

And here we go again with Religulous. I have heard a lot of people talking about this film, wanting to see it, and having no alternative but to drive an hour or more to the nearest theater with an open mind.

To be fair, I called Regal and asked about the film. Of course, the little Albanians with their feeble minds couldn't even figure out what film I was talking about. And then, when they did finally get their only two brain cells to connect, they said, "I don't know."

Maybe this back-water conservative town just can't handle a different view-point, or at least one they probably don't agree with. The people made fun of in Religulous are probably the type of people that live in this town and manage the local theater.

I think it's time to move.

The sex offender next door

I always knew there was something strange about the man next door. Rarely seen outside, he was the kind of recluse the neighborhood kids whispered stories about, daring each other to run into his barren yard. On the occasion he would emerge, they would run away, eyes huge and frightened, into the safety of their homes.
I admit I was equally frightened by this man. Like the children, my fear was based on gut instinct, a deep and lingering fear with no cause or explanation. My husband felt the same, warning me first of his feelings and asking me not to go inside the man’s house if invited.
His was an easy request to agree to, and I took it a step further by never walking past his house to my mail box when he was home. I didn’t want the creep to talk to me, or even, in my worst fears, kidnap me and drag me into his home. I tried to tell myself that my fears were irrational, mean, and even unfair. This man could be really nice, and completely innocent, and yet I was worried about him harming someone.
Fueled by my suspicions, and a $100,000 reward offered by Oprah for information leading to the capture of sex offenders, I began to search for records on my neighbor. Heck, I figured this might be my chance, even calling, to take a criminal off the streets and pay for college at the same time.
I searched through the Oregon Sex Offender Registry, local criminal records, police reports, all to no avail. The man had no record. But still, the feeling would not go away. What if the man was a criminal who had never been caught? What if he just wasn’t on the registry?
I continued my search for information, asking the neighbor kids about their experiences with him.
“I hate him, he’s horrible,” one child told me.
At that moment, the man appeared from his house, watching us from his front porch. The children turned quiet, even cold. In the hot summer sun these children were shivering.
The same child then looked up at me with frightened eyes and what looked like glistening tears, and told me that he “bothered them,” and that he “asked the girls on the street to hold up their shirts.”
Finally I had the information I was looking for. I knew children did not show fear like that unless they had a reason.
Down the street I went, talking to parents to see if they had heard the same stories from their children, and warning them of the potential danger. Every parent agreed that they had the same feelings I had, but without a cause, they had no reason to be too suspicious.
It wasn’t long after that the man next door was gone and his house for sale. Then the police knocked at my door. Someone had reported the man for a sexual offense, and he was a long-wanted sex offender who had managed to avoid being on the registry. Now he was missing.
I immediately thought of the ominous feelings I had, and of the children down the street. I hoped it was not one of them who had fallen prey to such evil.
Later that night I sat down and thought about all that had happened.
My husband, the neighborhood children, and I had been right about my neighbor. In our society we are taught to be nice to everyone, to not assume the worst, and to not pre-judge. Paired with my suspicions had always been guilt for thinking something so bad about someone I barely knew. Now I am glad I had those suspicions, thankful for the thousands of years of built-in instincts that protected not only myself, but the handful of children that live on my street. I was glad that they had listened to their fears, not worried about judging someone else, and had been forthright in the information they gave. Being polite is one thing, but learning to trust what our mind and body tells us is one of the most important lessons a anyone can have. I am glad the children learned it well, and mostly that that man is out of my neighborhood, and hopefully soon to be behind bars.

Don't pander to women, woman!

Alright, Sarah Palin, stop with the chick talk. Last night I heard her say in a speech, "The heels are on and the gloves are off!"
I had to run to the bathroom for fear of being sick.
Being a woman doesn't mean talking about your high heels, lipstick, or posing for Vogue.
Being a woman is about self-respect, strength, virtue, and breaking glass-ceilings.
The Republican campaign seems to think women are impressed by the former. Well, maybe some are. But I would like to hope the Republicans can go for more than just the stupid vote.
Intelligent women in American are looking for a strong leader, not one who references quotes off her Starbucks cups during her speeches. Not a beauty queen who can't string a single intelligent sentence together during an interview, and certainly not one who can't take a bit of the blame for it.
Republican's seem to think the second woman with a chance at the presidency (because we all know Hillary was first this election) can only talk about being a hockey mom, babies, and what it says on her coffee cup... "I'm reading on my Starbucks mocha cup, okay?..."
Instead Sarah Palin is pandering to weak-minded women, and insulting the rest of us with more than two brain cells rubbing together.
So stop pandering to these women, and talk about some real issues, woman!

My second post!

I like tacos.
I can't dance or sing.
I can play the flute, piano, sax, and many more.

www.lbcommuter.com