Erica

Too many of us allow apprehension to rule our lives. I am not talking about real anxiety, more so conforming to societal norms that say it is not OK to put yourself out there.

There is an old story about going over to your neighbor’s to borrow a cup of sugar. One woman would walk over, ask for the sugar and both would end up chatting so much that the other may leave without the sugar.

In today’s society, we are afraid to visit a friend unannounced, and when a doorbell rings we cringe. The person we are visiting, or the person who is visiting, may be a friend but we usually wish they would have called or texted first. Unless the person at the home is a nudist or running a high level crime operation, there should be no reason to worry.

My senior year of high school, I became friends with a freshman cymbal player in the marching band. The feelings were completely platonic. One weekend, when my friend Larry was home from college at Millersville, we were looking for something to do. I suggested we pick up my friend Erica. I had no clue if she was home. If she was home, I did not know if she had friends or a boyfriend there with her. I had no idea what her dad would think about two guys showing up at the door. It did not cross my mind what she would think about us just showing up. Back then, that is what you did - showed up at a friend’s house, asked them if they wanted to hang out.

Erica was home, her dad was either not home or didn’t care that we just showed up and she was more than willing to get in the car and go for a drive. We had no plans. We just drove around - two good friends who had known each other for years with a girl I had only known through band. We sang Bohemian Rhapsody, Larry ended up eating Erica’s chapstick and we had a great time.

That was 2000.

Fast-forward 16 years.

No one randomly stops to visit people they know, let alone someone they barely know. Life needs to be predictable so we can all plan to present the world we are projecting on Facebook. Close friendships are few and far between and we spend hours wondering how to make things better or making up scenarios about how a recent interaction could have gone better. We spend more time worrying instead of just doing.

I am as guilty as the next person, even though I know that 16 years later I am still vacationing with Erica.

Leather-wearing four-column features

It is 6:23 p.m. on a Friday and I am staring at a blank Word document and a shell of tomorrow’s newspaper. One of the holes on my front page needs to be filled by the article that should be appearing on that Word document, but for some reason I cannot bring myself to write it.
Why is the Word document blank? The same reason why the front page of tomorrow’s edition was torn apart the first time I laid it out, only to be rebuilt and torn apart again.
As much as I love this job, it is easy to get stuck in a personal rut. I thought my front page was too similar to one I laid out several weeks ago and my story about bikers donating food to the homeless was using too many of the same phrases that I wrote during a Bike Week piece in July.
Four column feature story with three column picture sits next to a two-column hard new piece. Leather-wearing visitors roar into town. No good, no good.
What the hell does it matter, I ask myself? Is the public going to know you laid out that front page? No. Is there even a slim chance Adams County readers will notice it resembles the front page of the July 31 edition? Hell no.
There is even less of a chance that they will notice my biker story is similar to one I wrote in July. But I do not care, I will know. Tonight I will go home and look at that newspaper a dozen times as my wife drifts off to sleep and I will know my creative juices went on vacation a week before the rest of my body will.
It is now 11:50 p.m. and the paper has been put to bed. The story is written and the page is designed. One I am pleased with, the other could be better.

Test of patience

I find writing and cooking are great ways to escape from reality and prevent myself from going completely insane. A certain level of insanity is a good thing, but when I am ready to put on my high school band uniform and run through the streets of Gettysburg pathetically attempting to play the trumpet sitting in my closet that I have not touched since Memorial Day 2001, I grab my laptop or a mixing bowl.
I write more than I cook; not only because my profession demands it, but also because it is cheaper and could never cause me to be a certified lard ass.
Today’s keystrokes are attributed to those tiny, annoying flies that torment our lives throughout the summer and fall.
Once or twice a month, I spend my weekends at the YWCA Service Desk. It is an easy job that puts a little extra money in our bank account. I watch the gate and make sure no one is sneaking in, take customers' money and answer questions. Those tasks take up about an hour, maybe two, of a five to seven hour shift. The rest of the time I read, balance my checkbook and waste time on the Internet.
It is very peaceful and very low key.
That is, until a few weeks ago when the outside temperatures began to rise and flies started retreating inside.
The YW is a very large place. There are plenty of spots for the flies to go without having to land on my head, nose and hands every thirty seconds. Instead, they insist on annoying the hell out of me.
They are God’s true test of patience. Traffic, lazy people and crying babies do not hold a candle to flies. It does not matter what the rest of your life is like, St. Peter will grant you instant access to the party house in the sky if you die without having ever killed a fly.
When I am talking to a member and one of those tiny creature’s little legs starts to tickle my skin, it takes every fiber of my being not to scream. I grab my swatter, but he is smart and much faster than I am. The rare occasion that I successfully turn one into desk kill, about a dozen of his family members appear and continue the job that their loved one died doing – trying to make me snap.
There are 29 minutes left in my shift. I may survive this one, but I also work seven hours tomorrow.

Game time

I am not a big sports fan, but I guess this is what “game time” feels like.
After a planned 16-month engagement, hours of planning and countless debit card transactions – the wedding is almost here.
I am pretty excited and have had a lot of fun along the way.
When I first proposed to Ashley in November 2007, I swore I was not going to be one of those fiancés who step back after giving her the ring and showed up on the wedding day to give her another one. I wanted to be a part of the planning process, and after some recent self-evaluation, I can safely say I was.
We decided April 18, 2009 would be our wedding day. The Catholic Church requires the wedding occur at least one year from the engagement, and winter nuptials were out of the picture since both of our families live several hours away and Mother Nature does not have a schedule.
I helped find a deejay, a tux, a photographer, a reception hall and a church. I secured the photographer for our invitation picture and I was supportive when Ashley understandably almost went through the roof while trying to print the invitations herself. The wedding ceremony will be in a church, but I saw a woman who is probably paid minimum wage perform a miracle at Staples.
The hardest part was probably her bridal shower. Her sister, Amber, did a wonderful job at planning the affair but it was me who had to see Ashley every day for six weeks while knowing when and where the event was going to occur. I delivered her to the restaurant without spilling my guts, and I celebrated my silence with my brother and her uncle.
There were some aspects of the process in which I could not have possibly been more useless. I accompanied her to the flower shop twice, but once I aimlessly wandered around the store and the other I went next door to find birthday cards for family members.
Even though it may have been the two of us doing most of the actual work, we had a great support staff – parents, siblings and friends. I must also give credit to my parish priest who assured Ashley that she and her non-Catholic family were more than welcome at the wedding without having to fear he was going to attempt conversions.
Now it is time to relax, I think. The bachelor party on the first weekend in April will be a simple, but fun, affair with a bunch of close friends drinking some suds in a Poconos cabin. The only stripping that will occur will be the cardboard being removed from the beer case.
Friends will start to arrive in Gettysburg the Wednesday before when I pick-up two of my five groomsmen from BWI. I have not seen these two in a while, so I am looking forward to seeing them.
The wedding itself will be an awesome affair. People who have known Ashley and me through many different stages of our lives will be gathered in one church to see us join together.
The Hilton Head honeymoon will undoubtedly be a great time and the future will be fun, exciting and unpredictable.

Strangers with needs

I easily sympathize with those who need charity. I regularly donate to non-profit organizations and my church, but how someone asks is one of the most important factors in my decision to give.
I walked into my cubicle the other day and discovered a large manila envelope. I opened it to find a greeting card and, like I usually do, I skipped the front cover and went right to the inside.
I did not necessarily want to know what was inside as much as who was giving it to me.
When I opened the card, I discovered a large wad of cash. Ok, you have my attention, I thought. Now, what the hell is going on?
One of my coworkers appeared to inform me the card was not for me; it was for Jan, who recently had a baby. There is no Jan who works in my department and the only other Jan I know working for the company is most likely beyond her child-bearing years.
Before I wrote something such as “Great job at preserving your youth,” Donna informed me that Jan was a man who works in commercial printing and the collection was intended to buy diapers for the new kid. She also admitted that even though she knew who Jan was, she did not know he was expecting a child.
I never carry cash on me, so I did could not contribute to the fund and I did not sign my name because I do not believe in taking credit for something that I only knew of because they threw it on my desk. Instead, I passed the card onto a coworker who was just as baffled as I was.
Later that week, a few us were discussing the mysterious card and I got to thinking about when it is appropriate to turn down a request. If I had been carrying cash that day, I most likely would have thrown in $5 without thinking about who needed it more – me or Jan.
I also do not know whether Jan really needed the diaper collection or it was simply a gesture of goodwill from his coworkers and anyone else whose paycheck is signed by the same person who signs his. Jan’s kid did not even do anything spectacular that I am aware of; all I knew from the card was the Jan’s kid defecates and I should support that.
I think our sports editor summed it up best when he said the recession caused him to delete the “strangers with needs” line item from his budget.

The meeting

The dismal economy and ever-dwindling state of the newspaper industry finally had an effect on me today; luckily in the least damaging way possible.
The boss hung a mysterious note yesterday announcing a 9 a.m. staff meeting on Friday. All of our staff meetings are at 4 p.m. on Tuesdays and usually only once a month, if that. We just had one Tuesday.
My coworkers and I have heard from industry colleagues at other papers about "the meeting" and we knew our time had come.
Most of us spent Thursday night pondering what Friday morning would bring - layoffs? furloughs? worse? We discussed the possibilities with each other and went to bed wondering.
Unfortunately, I had to attend a Chamber of Commerce breakfast before the big meeting. I never enjoy these assignments. There is a lot of hobnobbing and small talk, plus they force me to start work at the ungodly hour of 7 a.m. To make matters worse, they took the coffee pots away at 7:30 a.m., and I was left in a decaffeinated state, wondering what my professional future held.
At 9 a.m., we slowly walked into the conference room with blank stares on our face. Since we were all summoned at once, I assumed layoffs were not a possibility. They could not can us all, and they certainly would not announce a man's demise in front of his peers.
The result wasn't pretty, but certainly bearable. Until the end of June, we will work 37.5 hours a week instead of 40. There will be financial consequences, but luckily in the smallest increments imaginable. Other newspapers have implemented five consecutive day furloughs, having a daunting effect on paychecks. Five hours a pay period is doable.
Hopefully the newspaper industry will bounce back. Contrary to popular belief, not everyone reads the news online; but what is even more sad is that not too many people read the news. Every week, I hear people gossip about local affairs. While they ponder about what is really happening, I tell them the answer was in the newspaper.
Reporters are only human, and we do make mistakes or miss news; but we also clear up the rampant rumors, tell you who died the day before and who got a DUI on the weekend. The newspaper is also there when you want to announce your child's birthday, brag about the service award you received or announce your support for a local candidate.