Diary of a Displaced Journalist - Rebecca Meiser

Arriving Home

After being hit by a semi truck last week and spending the last few days in New Jersey dealing with super-fun things like insurance agents and police officers and lawyers, I was kind of excited to arrive back in Cleveland. I already had my whole week planned: Mostly it involved sleeping. (I really, really like sleeping). I thought I'd also drink some wine, catch up on my reading, do some writing, think about important worldly matters -- like whether my hair looks better curly or straight (I'm finding myself unusually torn on this issue).

As I headed down the hallway toward my apartment, I was feeling something I haven't felt in a week: peace. contentedness. optimism. Then I noticed an envelope taped to my door. "Oh," I thought, eyes tearing. "Someone got me a glad-you're ok card." How totally sweet!! Maybe there was a gift certificate inside!!! I skipped to the door.

Instead of a hundred dollar itunes card, I found ... a subpoena! I had to report to federal at 10:30 am on Monday to testify in a federal trial!

Well, that's almost as fun as twenty free nonstop hours of Enya. 

About a year ago, I wrote a story about LaMont Lockhart,the black police chief of Woodmere who accused Woodmere's black mayor of purposely discriminating against white employees. The mayor agreed to talk with me for the article. Then, after the article came out, the mayor apparently felt it wasn't necessary to talk to anyone else. So she didn't. And now the prosecutors apparently thought it would be excellent if I were to relay that original conversation to the jury.

Joy.

Did you hear the one about the journalist and a semi truck?

So, like many twenty-somethings with $120,000 degrees in really interesting -- and totally useless -- things like creative writing, I tend toward dramatic hyperboles. I never simply have bad days. I have catastrophic, world-ending days. I am never just hungry. My stomach is always on the verge of eating itself. And after waking from a long night of drinking, I often feel like I've been run over by a Mac truck.

It turns out my analogies are like totally off. Last week, on the way to an interview, my five year old Honda was side-swapped by an actual Mac Truck. Luckily-miraculously- I walked away without a scratch. I learned a very important lesson however: Turns out that being hit by an 18-wheeler feels NOTHING like being hung-over. Looks like I'm going to have to work on my simile skills.

On the plus side, I now have a built-in excuse for everyday things I've neglected to do in the past week-like updating this blog. You'll have to excuse me though: I was hit by a semi-truck :)

Why Its Good to be Partially-Unemployed

It is generally agreed by most everyone I know that choosing journalism as a career goal right now is generally a really, really bad idea. College grads should aim for something that's realistically attainable: like Broadway star or president of the United States. But if you insist of being a writer, know that there's at least one perk to being unemployed.

Typepad -- the canvas on which all my brilliant and witty insights are recorded -- is offering free blogging services to recently unemployed writers.  This amounts to a $150 annual savings. While this is certainly excellent news, the site's CEO, Neil Dash, warns that the program is "not going to singlehandedly preserve the career and income of every working journalist who has a job today."

Drat. Well, there goes all my plans for world domination.

Ethical Dilemnas

Today, as I mentioned before, is a super-sad day. First off, my beloved computer fatally crashed. Cause of death: still unknown. Funeral services to be held soon.

Then, as if the day couldn't get any worse, I got this horrible, horrible new: Cleveland's favorite political science professor is leaving me. Apparently, his wife is starting to suspect he's having an affair with his blog or something and is, consequently, going on sabbatical. Why exactly I was not included in this discussion I am still trying to figure out, but in the meantime I'm drowning my tears in soup (pumpkin bisque to be exact. It's actually quite good. Especially if you add Splenda).

The professor, when I contacted him, was impervious to my tears. That guy -- he's a strong one, I tell you. Anyway, he urged me to continue on with his fight. I told him I couldn't-- I was weak, I was tired, I don't get out of bed till 10 --but the professor would have none of it. He demanded I stay tough -- for him, for our combined three readers -- and for poor Angela Senters. Angela, if you remember, was a nice -- if misguided -- waitress in Butler County Ohio who's boyfriend was so upset about Obama's election that he decided to join the KKK. For days, the professor had been on a conquest to get Angela a new boyfriend. I joined in, writing a very persuasive (I felt) email, convincing Angela to leave the jackass.

It seems the campaign has been somewhat successful. Just before the professor left his post, he sent me and Melinda Urick a tip about Angela's whereabouts and email-- and also the phone number of Senter's boyfriend.

Now the question becomes what to do with this info. Since my "ethical guru" was someone, who, um made up quotes, I'm leaving this question up to you, dear readers. 

As Shakespeare would ask: "What sayeth you?" 

Monday mornings

Everyone bitches about Monday mornings. For good reasons. They suck. And today's fully lived up to its reputation.

At 9 am, I was supposed to have a very important interview with a source. To prepare for said "very important interview,"I set my alarm for -gasp!- 7:00. And then I went to turn on my computer. Only there was a slight problem. The computer would not turn on. So I do what I always do in any panic-inducing type of situation: I called my friend Scott.

"Scott," I said, when he finally answered the phone --(Scott likes to wait approximately 29 seconds before he answers any call. This makes him seem like a very busy, important person.) "My computer won't turn on!" I wailed.

"Well, is it plugged in?" he asked patiently.

"Of course, it's plugged in," I said (though I didn't actually know at the time whether it was plugged in or not. I thought it  best not to to reveal that particular info, though as it would make me look stupid).

In any event, it turned out the computer was actually plugged in. But it waturning on and off , on and off-- like Dole's pre-Viagara libido. Scott suggested I take out the battery for fifteen minutes, then try it again. Just to be safe, I left it out for twenty. I'm super-conservative like that.

At the end of twenty minutes, I put the battery back in -- to the same awful results. This morning was turning out to be a real horror show. 

So my computer and I headed to Best Buy's computer services where we waited in a very, very long line. When we finally got to the front, the computer guy took one look at the computer and said "hmmmm."

Hmmmmm is never a good word to hear. Especially when it's followed by the words, "Not sure what's wrong exactly, but it's not good. We'll have to send it on to the service people."

"So, it will be back in what --an hour?" I asked hopefully.

The guy started laughing hysterically. "No," he said. "two to four weeks."

Two to four weeks? Two to four weeks?! Was he kidding? (I asked him this. He responded "no.")

I tried begging. When that didn't work I told him, very importantly, that I was a writer. My computer is my office, I explained logically. We can't possibly be apart for that long. In fact, we're sort of inseparable. Like Brad and Angelina, I explained helpfully.

The guy seemed weirded out by this analogy.

In the end, we bargained. Kind of. For the low, low price of $500, I could "rent" another computer until my old one was fixed -- or more likely --thrown in a landfill, its keyboard auctioned off at price. When that happened, I could return the rented computer for a partial refund.

Woo hoo.

To top the morning off, my very important interview canceled on me. Though "cancel" is not exactly the right word. To "cancel" one would have to actually pick up the phone and say you can't make it. My interview did not cancel, she just did not show up.

Is it Tuesday yet?

Dear Becky :

A few days ago, Cleveland's most popular political science professor wrote me a personal, pleading email e-mail begging for help. Being a kind, empathetic sort, the prof was very concerned about Angela Senters, a nice -- if a bit confused-- waitress in conservative Hamilton County.  Seems Angela has this horrible ass of a boyfriend that is so upset we have a black president that he's going to "go over to Kentucky and join the Ku Klux Klan." This no-doubt lovely man has Senters convinced that the "world is going to end in 2012 and that Obama is the antichrist."

Oy.

The poli-sci prof was kind of upset by this news and is nowon a crusade to help Angela find another boyfriend. Luckily, I'm well-versed in these type of situations having written a "relationship" (this means sex) column in college. Also, my great grandfather hailed from Cincinnati so I'm totally familiar with the area and know how to speak native.

Allow me to help.

Dearest Angela-

I don't know you very well, but I can tell by the two inch photo in the Plain Dealer that you are an intelligent, sassy, fashionable, empathetic woman who is most likely a Pisces. Naturally, then, you have an innate compulsion to help needy, insecure others gain a feeling of self-worth and confidence. Unfortunately, this also means that you have an innate compulsion to choose asshole boyfriends. Though I personally have no experience with this, I've heard this is a horrible, horrible trend and I feel for you.

Also, I am very sorry to be the one to tell you this, but your boyfriend has been lying to you. He claims to subscribe to strict KKK beliefs, but if he really did he would know that  Obama can't possibly be the antichrist. This is because he's not Jewish. As the revered Christian prophet and secret KKK leader Jerry Falwell once prophesized, the antichrist is a short Jewish male who is currently walking somewhere around New York City noshing on a bagel. This description does not fit Barack HUSSEIN Obama at all. In fact, if you listen to my elderly, slightly deranged aunt Beatrice in South Florida, Obama actually really hates the Jews.

See what I mean?

Anyway, listen Angie, it's lunch time and I'm getting hungry. So let me make this brief. My advice: Dump the jerk. He's clearly only using you for your pie, anyway. Also, while we're on the subject  of dessert, would you mind sending me a nice apple crueler? They don't make them so good here in Cleveland.

All my best,

Becky

Early Morning Phone Calls

Early this morning, I was having a wonderful dream; I don't remember the plot exactly but I know it involved chocolate chip cookies and fairies and beaches. In any event,I was awoken from this amazing slumber by a screeching noise -- the sort of beeping, buzzing, awful sound that might someday be used to signify the end of the world. After making sure that the world was not, in fact, ending and confirming that that my apartment was not leaking carbon monoxide (which has always been sort of a secret fear of mine,) I eventually figured out the genesis of the sound: my phone. 

At this point, it was approximately 6:45 am. Keep in mind: For me, an "early morning" entails me rolling out of bed at 8:35. Every time I make it up in time for the opening segment of Regis and Kelly, I consider it a small personal victory. So, to me a 6:45 phone call can safely be filed under the heading "cruel and unusual torture" -- my own personal water boarding.

The call-- which I let go to voice mail --was from a close friend's elderly aunt. In the message, she rambled on about  a "once in a lifetime job opportunity." I was to call back as soon as I got the message.

Immediately, my mind began to race. Maybe she knew of an opening at Vogue or The New Yorker? Heck, at this rate, I'd even settle for a job at Marie Claire (which, even with its total overhaul, still kind of comes across as that annoyingly earnest 14 year old girl who dresses well but tries way, way too hard).

So, anyway, I figured this call must be super-important. After downing a shot of coffee -- I had to do something to feign cheeriness, I called back immediately. And then the woman told me what the job was: A part time housekeeper/nanny for a very wealthy family in the area.

This situation was so terrible and unexpected that all I could do was laugh. On top of the fact, that in a span of two minutes, I spanned all  emotions from super-excited to anxious to depressed, the situation was totally hilarious. Of all the jobs that I've applied to that I'm not exactly qualified for (and there are a lot) this probably takes the cake. Obviously, this person has never seen my apartment (or car or desk or any other space that i've occupied for more than five minutes :) It was only last week that another friend literally forced me to purchase my first vacuum cleaner ever (her name is Julie, by the way. And she is still safely encased in her original packaging in my closet).

 But I guess there was a positive side to this. For the first time in months, I was up in time for the Today Show. Question: Um, when did they replace actual news casters with puppets? (Unfortunately, this is not a question-probing, writerly analogy. It's an actual fact. Meredith and Matt were played by Muppets this morning.) Huh...

Following Up

About two months ago, I saw a job listing for a social engagement position at a nearby college. Since I am, by my own account, both social and engaging -- and was actually quite familiar with the university-- I thought I'd be perfect. I told my best friend about the job and she also agreed it was a great fit. Now that everyone was unanimous in this position, I went ahead and applied for the job.

Then ... nothing.

So I reacted like every rational, sane human being would: I sulked. Then I stewed. Occasionally, to be different, I reversed the order.

But what I never did was follow up. If they don't recognize my amazingness, then I'm not going to try and convince them of it, I rationalized. This logic seemed perfectly reasonable to me. (Note: There's probably a reason I failed logic in college).

Turns out, the employer never actually received my resume. When I forwarded it to her later, she was -- as I'd initially assumed-- impressed. In conclusion: Pride is really great when you're marching in parades, but perhaps not so great a thing to have when you're applying for jobs.

The Day After

Over the past two days, I've spent a lot of time in the car. Since I'm sick of all my CDs and am way too cheap to pay for satellite radio, this means that I listen to a lot of public radio. This is nothing new. Nothing that I haven't been doing for months now. But somehow something felt different. At first, I couldn't place it. It's not like my interests had suddenly changed -- I was still spending the exact same amount of time listening to the same Leona Lewis and Katy Perry songs --(which says a lot about my non-existent taste in music). I was still taking the same roads, encountering the same potholes and traffic lights. And then I realized what was missing: There were no more nasty political ads. No more ugly "exposes" about the ugly side of every single candidate. Instead, all I heard were sunny positive ads for Claritin and Lexipro and Viagara.This new feeling I was having was called "happiness." I was glad to have it back. 

More Voting in Ohio

One of the "great things" about being a swing state like Ohio is that every four years, large bus-fuls of "democracy volunteers"are bussed into town to "help out" at the election polls. To me, this idea of uppity New York-type coming to make sure we, Ohioans, know how to hold a pen the right way is kind of degrading. And even though I am technically, by birth, an uppity-New York type, I still hate these people. They all fancy themselves Mother Teresa-types. With better hair.

Case in point: This afternoon, one of these NY volunteers walked into Phoenix Coffee, wearing a fanny pack. Being a curious sort, I asked the volunteer what she was carrying with her. There was the normal stuff: cell phone, the phone number of Ohio's voter protection call center, cigarettes. Then there was the not- so- normal stuff: lots of dollar bills(her trip adviser told her there might not be a lot of available ATMS in Cleveland) her primary doctor's phone number, hand sanitizer.

It was like she was preparing to enter a third world country or something. The only thing she was missing was a gas mask -- though chances are, she probably had a spare one on the bus.