New York, Part I

In the summer of 2010, I flew to New York City for an internship with the New York Daily News. While it was the shortest chapter of my journalism career — just seven weeks — it will be featured in multiple posts here, because a lot went on in those seven weeks.

The New York internship was not easy. Most of the other Daily News interns were native New Yorkers, but to me, the city might as well have been a foreign country. My total lack of knowledge of everything from NYC neighborhoods to how to hail a taxi often put me at a real disadvantage when I was expected to race around the city chasing stories and beating out seasoned reporters from news outlets that sometimes included the likes of the New York Times. 

The most important news outlet to beat was the New York Post. The Post and the News have a storied rivalry — the stuff of journalism legend. Every reporter, photographer and intern alike knew that with anything they turned in, their haul would be compared side by side with the Post's coverage the next day, and they would have to account for their failure on every single detail that ended up in the Post but not the News. 

I got chewed out on many occasions for not finding the same person in a crowd of bystanders that a Post reporter did. I remember one day the main assignment editor I reported to coming over to the table where I was working alongside a handful of other interns and junior reporters, grabbing the end of it, and saying he wished he could push the whole table and all of us with it out the window and into the Hudson because of how useless we had been to him that day.

This sort of thing generally led to two different responses in Post and News journalists: some resorted to subterfuge of all kinds to outwit their rival on a story, while others banded together behind their editors' backs to level the playing field. 

This played out most obviously in stakeouts. Sometimes I ended up outside a building with a News photog and a duo from the Post for hours on end, either waiting for someone to come home or waiting for them to come out of their apartment so we could shout questions at them and take their picture. (That sort of behavior was something I absolutely hated, am not proud of, and once I was done with that internship and had a little more control over how I handled stories, never did again).

Sometimes the News photog I was paired with for the day would warn me not to take my eyes off the other team for a second, but often we would all chat amiably throughout the day, and I learned a lot from those conversations. When we trusted each other, we took care of logistics like bathroom breaks by agreeing the four of us would all leave the scene together to hit the bathroom and grab some lunch from the nearest bodega. If we all stuck together during the break, then if the target of our stakeout came in or out of the building while we were gone, no one would be the wiser, and none of us would get yelled at for missing anything that the other paper got. And if our editors wouldn't give permission to leave the scene unless the other paper's team left first, well, the solution there (providing you trusted the other team not to double back) was for both sides to tell their editors at the same time that the other one was just leaving.

(Sidebar: There was one other BYU intern at the News, and she was from Canada. One day she got stuck at a stakeout for longer than necessary because when she called to check in with our editor and he asked if the Post was there, her mind jumped to the recent arrival of the mail carrier to deliver the mail, which in Canada is known as the post, and told him yes, the post had arrived.)

One of my favorite moments of collaboration came with a Post reporter who I had been through a few stakeouts with. We both showed up at a large office building one day, following the same tip that an FBI raid was about to take place. Following a fruitful off-the-record conversation with a guy loitering outside in a polo shirt and buzz cut, we plunked ourselves down across the street and watched as a collection of vans pulled up a short while later and people filed inside, returning a few minutes later with armfuls of computers and boxes.

Afterward, the other reporter and I were both told by our respective editors to stick around and see if we could catch any of the neighbors of the (alleged) mass scammers who were raided and ask what they had seen. As was often the case in New York, the doorman would not let us inside. But eventually the doorman had to leave his post momentarily to help someone carry something, and the Post reporter and I slipped inside. We searched the building, trying to look like we belonged there, until we located the raided office and had an excellent interview with the secretary for the neighboring office that yielded all sorts of colorful quotes about how they seemed shady and "dressed like gangsters."

I did, on occasion, get something the Post didn't get. One of my most triumphant moments came thanks to an appearance by Justin Bieber on the Today show.

This was at the height of Bieber fever, and there was a line of preteen girls a mile long waiting for the chance to catch a glimpse of the teen idol leaving the NBC studios on Rockefeller Plaza after the show. Many had spent the night on the sidewalk. When I called to check in with the assignment editor on the morning of the big appearance, he told me to get down there and interview a few of the girls in line about what they loved about Justin Bieber for a fluff piece about his visit to New York.

I showed up to find a couple of other news outlets had the same idea, and watched as they interviewed a handful of girls and then left. As I studied the line to see which girls might give the best quotes, it occurred to me that the girl at the very front of the line would have waited there the longest and were therefore arguably his biggest fans.

When I talked to the pair of 14-year-old girls at the head of the line, I struck gold. They had, as many girls had, spent the night before sleeping on the sidewalk. However, unlike all of the other girls, they had also spent the night before that sleeping out there — all alone. One girl's grandmother had brought them into the city, but was too old to sleep on a pool floatie on the sidewalk for two nights, and so had checked into a hotel and had let them sleep on the street all by themselves on the first night, until more girls showed up the next day.

We got a photographer down there, I convinced the girls to convince the grandmother to come down and do an interview, and the News played the story up big on social media, with polls about whether she was the worst grandmother ever or best grandmother ever, sparking major comment wars online. It was the one time the main assignment editor I worked under all summer ever complimented me on a story (technically, he ended up in the elevator with another intern who later told me he said "I should have told Jade she did a good job with the Bieber story today" but coming from the same guy that threatened to throw us into the Hudson, it was rare praise nonetheless).

I did not get to see Justin Bieber that day, but the two finalists from that year's American Idol did drive by in a limo and wave to the girls in line, much to their delight. 

It was one of many minor brushes with celebrities I had that summer. Once, I interviewed a Pussycat Doll and some of the wolves from Twilight (minus Taylor Lautner) when they were judges for a contest to sing the national anthem at the U.S. Open. Another time, my editor sent me to Spike Lee's townhouse to ask him a question about the Boston Celtics. The famed director, unfortunately, was not home, but his wife took a note from me asking him to call my editor, and he did call. 

I ended up helping cover the funeral of Lena Horne, as well. Another News reporter did most of the coverage, but after the service I followed a scrum of other reporters around outside, jotting down notes as others asked questions of talented legends like Dionne Warwick, Chita Rivera and Diahann Carroll.

The New York internship had its ups and downs, for sure. There were some bad moments (more on that later) but I don't regret doing it. I had a lot of interesting experiences and learned a lot of things from that internship, including the importance of always looking for the thing that's going to make your story stand out from the rest of the field.

My first paid journalism job

 

My first ever paid journalism job came my junior year of college, as a metro editor for the Daily Universe.

As these were part-time student positions supervising dozens of first-semester journalism and public relations students, we had 10 total student editor positions. I was one of two metro editors, meaning I supervised the reporters who were covering off-campus news, such as Provo city council meetings, alongside an editor named Courtney.

Although Courtney and I sat very close to each other, we often resorted to communicating over whatever Google’s version of chat was at the time so that we weren’t overheard by the reporters. This is because we only had a limited amount of space on the metro page every day, and we had to balance quality control with letting everyone get their byline in the print version at some point. Let’s just say some of our reporters were better than others.

(Some of them weren’t reporters at all, but public relations majors who were forced to take the class in an attempt to help them understand how journalism works so they didn’t become terribly useless PR flaks who don’t understand that if the paper is printed at 5 p.m. you can’t give me the information at 5:15 and be surprised it didn’t make it in. This should not take a college degree to figure out, but in some cases, apparently, even a college degree doesn’t help).

Many of our reporters were enthusiastic go-getters, however. I remember once we heard a report of a fire over the scanner but didn’t catch the location, and one intrepid reporter offered to go ride out to the smoke plume on her bike. This was both her and my first lesson in an important principle of local journalism, which is that plumes of smoke are almost always miles farther away than they appear. She never did make it all the way out there.

Overall, I loved the job. Newsrooms are usually fun, exciting places full of intelligent people who are the same kind of nerdy as I am.  I had awesome coworkers, including not only the student editors but the four faculty members who supervised the newsroom and were everything I could ask for in a mentor. We had spirited debates about the State of the Union address, rehashed BYU basketball wins, joked about anything and everything, and celebrated every possible holiday, from National Pancake Day to National Cardigan Day.

We also experienced some of the downsides of any newsroom, including hate mail from readers and anger from the subjects of our stories. For my friends who aren’t a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, it’s a little hard to explain the certain flavor that early hate mail often took, but that explanation should probably start with the old joke that Catholics say their pope is infallible but don’t believe it, and members of our church say their prophet is fallible but don’t believe it.

I can’t speak to the Catholic side, but what I can speak to is that members of the church, including students at BYU, tend to have widely different ideas of what it really means when church doctrine states that, on the one hand, prophets and apostles continue to lead Jesus Christ’s church today as they did in Biblical times, passing messages from God to His children specific to their day. But on the other hand, the only perfect person to walk the Earth was Jesus Christ and therefore church leaders are flawed human beings who sometimes make mistakes.

A certain small but vocal segment of the BYU population seemed to forget the latter, and instead decided that since BYU was a church-owned school, everything that happened there was based on divine inspiration.

When we reported that people were getting undeserved parking tickets because the parking department’s new automatic license plate readers had trouble distinguishing between the letter B and the number 8, people in our newsroom generally felt that choosing a faulty brand of license plate reader was a simple mistake by some random person in Parking Services that needed fixing and not an essential part of God’s plan. But to some of the True Believers, this was the Lord’s university, and therefore any criticism of it was a sacrilegious attack on the Lord’s church and His chosen leaders.

Most of the Daily Universe editors were part of an advanced reporting class taught by Professor John Hughes, a former White House correspondent, Pulitzer Prize winner and my favorite professor at BYU. Under his expert guidance we turned out all sorts of excellent investigative reporting, from a look at the budget of the student association (spoiler alert: the student leaders spent what some would call an unreasonably large amount of money on themselves) to a data analysis showing that housing prices at BYU-approved off-campus housing were rising faster than prices outside “the bubble.”

My favorite story that I worked on was one I wrote in partnership with a student named Danny, about academic cheating at BYU. We had a lot of good interviews discussing how sometimes professors at BYU were a little too trusting that BYU students were honest people, but Danny found the crown jewel of the piece, which started this way:

The paper is days overdue. It was on her to-do list, but got relegated to the back of her mind as other assignments came and went. She still hasn’t written it, and there’s no hope of turning it in on time now. Worth 15 percent of her grade, this paper could mean a letter grade difference in the course and a several decimal point change in her GPA.

But Heather isn’t worried. The 20-year-old from Kennewick, Wash. knows the professor can be absent-minded. She knows he will e-mail her later in the semester, informing her he’s missing her grade on that particular assignment. When that e-mail comes, DeFord will be ready with her completed paper and a prepared response. “That’s strange,” she’ll say. “Here it is again.”

The original article included Heather's last name, but after some thought I took it out here, to be nice, since this is a personal blog not a newspaper, it happened when she was 12 years younger it's not essential for this story. You may think it is unbelievable that a student would agree to go on the record using her full name to describe such a strategy, but one thing I learned in journalism is that you should never assume someone won’t be willing to go on the record if you tell them that you aren’t willing to quote them without their full name.

This is one criticism I have of the national media. Journalists working for major publications have gotten far too lax about letting people stay anonymous over literally anything.

Now, I’m not saying anonymous sources don’t have their place. In my 10-year journalism career I can count on one hand the number of times I quoted a source without using their full first and last name, and all but one of those times was to protect a child. In one case in Hermiston, for example, I reported on the story of a seven-year-old accidentally shooting his two-year-old brother with a gun he found unsecured in under the front seat of his mother's care when she ran into the house to grab something after buckling up the kids. The toddler survived after brain surgery. The family agreed to an interview about the deep regret they felt about not keeping firearms locked in a safe at all times in a household with young children, in the hopes that other families would learn from their mistake, but requested their names be withheld for the sake of the seven-year-old’s future, and my editor and I agreed.

On a national level, again, there are times when using anonymous whistleblowers is reasonable to gain information vital to our nation that can’t be obtained any other way. Nixon would have never resigned without Deep Throat. But these days reporters for national media will use an anonymous source to say, “Someone says the president will announce this thing one hour from now” or other similarly trivial things that aren’t worth the way such wanton use of anonymity hurts trust in the media. The political machine in DC is allowed to get away with far too much off the record, leveraging journalists against their political opponents with no accountability. This country would be better off if papers like the Washington Post and New York Times joined together to take the same hard line on anonymous sources as journalists for local newspapers across the country who frequently tell people, “if you’re not willing to own what you’re telling me I’m not willing to write it” and often get told in return, “Alright, you can use my name, then.”

Sorry but "My golf buddies might say something disapproving" is not a valid reason to stay off the record.

Back to the Daily Universe … In addition to sometimes angering students, our investigative reporting also angered certain members of the BYU administration, who felt it was our role as a BYU-sponsored publication to focus on things that reflected positively on BYU.

Tensions between our staff and the administration escalated throughout that final semester of 2010, with professors and faculty picking sides. I learned a lot that semester about navigating office politics and navigating the line between being assertive and being insubordinate (although occasionally I channeled my frustration into being passive-aggressive instead, like when a certain professor would copy all the other professors on his emails back and forth with me show everyone how well he was handling the situation, and I would hit “reply” instead of “reply all” every time so he would have to keep looping everyone back in).

There is a lot that could be said here, but parts of it don’t feel like my story to tell, so all I’ll stick to saying that the Daily Universe staff back then were good people trying their hardest to honorably navigate the complicated balance between journalism ethics and reporting on their own school and religion, despite accusations from outside the journalism department to the contrary. We went through the wringer a bit that semester, and by the end of it I had decided that while I still loved journalism and I still loved the church, once I graduated I was moving away from Utah so I could report free from the sleepless nights that sometimes came from trying to be an objective journalist in a state where your own religion is mixed up in everything.

 As my junior year came to a close, I had a new adventure to look forward to. Every year BYU sent somewhere in the ballpark of 30 communications students to New York City for summer internships, and after initially being waitlisted, I received the news several of my fellow editors had also received: I was going to New York.

My First Internship

 

I did two internships during my time at BYU, and the first was an unpaid summer internship for my hometown newspaper, The Dalles Chronicle.

I grew up reading the Chronicle, and it shaped my idea of local journalism before I headed off to college. I had also been featured in the Chronicle a few times in high school – once, I was quoted as a student representative on a committee advising the school board; another time, I appeared in a front page photo as Cinderella’s stepmother in the spring musical. So getting my byline in that particular paper was satisfying.

Everyone at the Chronicle was significantly older than me, but the two full-time general assignment reporters, both near retirement age, were gracious in taking me under their wing. The sum total of my journalism experience thus far was a single semester at a student publication, but once I proved my worth my editor trusted me to go off and report on all sorts of stories.

I filled in for the sports reporter while he went on vacation, and while there were no high school games to cover, I filled the sports page for the week with features on off-beat “sports” like dirt biking and fly fishing. I covered various local summer events, and wrote a column defending my decision to go into journalism even though people kept telling me print was dead. One of my favorite stories I did that summer was a long Sunday feature on a tattoo artist, talking about her journey to sobriety from drugs.

During my internship I confronted one of the weaknesses that many journalists of my generation face: I really hated talking on the phone. The idea of picking up the phone and cold-calling a stranger was about as daunting as walking into an interview in my underwear.

At the Daily Universe, I had almost always been able to avoid this by using the university directory to email professors to set up an interview and then interviewing them in person. But in the real world in 2009, most businesses didn’t have a website listing all their staff email addresses, Facebook was for college students, and texting was for people who could afford to pay 10 cents a text.

I don’t know if it was more a Millennial thing or a McDowell thing. My mom and my aunt once bonded over laughing hysterically at stories of the lengths their husbands went to avoid picking up a phone. Why call the number in the window of the car you are really interested in buying, when you can just drive by it every day in the hopes that the owner will be standing there?

Either way, I had to really psyche myself up every time I made a phone call. I would literally write down a script for introducing myself and study it, rehearsing the words in my head, taking a few deep breaths and then saying to myself, “Actually, maybe I’ll do this other thing and call later.” Every time I got an answering machine, I breathed a sigh of relief.

They weren’t even hard calls, unlike later in my career, when I would have to call people to ask questions like, “Did you commit this crime you’re accused of?” or “Why did you get fired?” You would think people would yell at you or hang up on you when you told them you were going to write in the paper that they were being charged with a crime, but surprisingly, those conversations were sometimes downright pleasant. A man accused of defrauding people by collecting “investments” in creation of a biofuels plant and then allegedly spending all that money on himself, for example, cheerfully told me he would be happy to invite me to the groundbreaking when it was ready to take place.

On the other hand, sometimes the most innocuous-seeming stories you didn’t think twice about will get you yelled at. I once covered a 5k event on Thanksgiving, for example, and when I arrived I asked who was in charge and interviewed the woman who was pointed out, referring to her as “Organizer so-and-so” in the story that also featured quotes from several runners and information about the charity the event was benefitting. Later a different woman called, irate, and asked how I could be so incompetent to give someone else credit for the event that she organized. No “thank you for missing out on family time to work Thanksgiving Day to give some positive coverage of our event,” just complaints.

Anyway, I took the first step in getting over my phone phobia with my internship at the Chronicle, and survived. I couldn’t afford to spend the entire summer there, because college is expensive, but I did spend eight weeks of my four-month summer break there and then spent the next couple of months working 60-hour weeks to make up for it.

I had assumed I would be heading into my first paid journalism job in the fall, after faculty at the Daily Universe told me I did a great job as a reporter there and I should apply for a paid editor position when I came back. However, they ended up deciding to hire students who were closer to graduation and hadn’t had the opportunity for that experience yet.

This resulted in the only period of unemployment in my adult life. It was in 2009, when the recession was still going strong, and there was more supply than demand when it came to student labor. Everywhere I went that fall semester, I’d hand over my job application only to see it placed on an inch-thick stack of applications already submitted. I’d like to say that I used that extra 20 hours a week wisely, but to be honest, my grades weren’t any better, I just spent more time socializing and actually had time to watch TV for once.

I applied for the Daily Universe again as the fall semester came to a close, and at first I was once again told that there were seniors who needed the experience more than I did. But over Christmas break, I caught a lucky break: One of the girls hired had changed her mind about working there, and I was asked to take her place.

I was ready.

The Story of How I Became a Journalist

 

The first news article I ever published was in a newspaper that my brother Lance and I created. The Family News only published a single edition, created solely for the purpose of mocking my father, who had sprained his ankle by stepping on a walnut. For some reason this was very funny to us, and we let our bias on the matter show by including the line, “People say Rodney will be participating in physical therapy, which is funny because he’s a therapist too.”

Other than the front page news, titled “The Walnut Catastrophe,” the edition included an article about how our youngest brother Cole was sick that week and a tongue-in-cheek advice column in which I recommended a fictious sister frustrated by her younger brothers call Poison Control to find a suitable poison for getting rid of them

(I don’t know exactly how old I was when this took place, maybe 12? Old enough I should have had a better understanding of the purpose of Poison Control, since by then I’m pretty sure my parents had called Poison Control three times, once for each of my brothers.)

At that point, I didn’t know yet that I was going to make a career out of journalism. When I was a kid with a voracious appetite for books I said I was going to be an author, and then when I got old enough to understand how many bills adults have I went through a phase where I said I wanted to be an English teacher, because that seemed safer. During my junior year of high school, I took AP English Language, and we started off each class period reading news columns by people like George Will and Gail Collins, and I decided that being a columnist sounded like the perfect marriage of two of my great loves: Writing and telling people my opinions.

I took a journalism class my senior year, and my teacher, who went by Ms. Jennings at the time, was pretty cool.

Once, I was persuaded to skip her class by some friends who had a free period that period and wanted to hang out. It seemed like a fine idea at the time, until a few hours later when I found myself at parent-teacher conferences and realized that:

1)     My locker was next to Ms. Jennings’ room and she was sure to have noticed that I was at school that day but never quite made it to her class.

2)     This seemed sure to come up when my parents arrived at her room.

3)     My parents at this point had no idea that I occasionally did not quite make it to a class I was supposed to be attending and I wasn’t quite sure exactly how mad they would be about it.

As we made the rounds to the teachers Lance and I had, I caught a lucky break when the rest of the family was caught up by someone in the hallway and I entered Ms. Jennings’ classroom alone, looking, no doubt, incredibly guilty.

She looked at me knowingly, and said lightly, “I noticed you didn’t make it to class today. I figured after all the hard work you’ve been putting in lately you had earned a mental health day. Just know you’ve used your one for the semester.”

She did not mention anything to my parents, and out of gratitude I worked harder than ever before in her class and attended all my classes faithfully for the rest of the semester.

At the end of that class I had made up my mind that journalism did seem like something that might be a good fit, and so I signed up for some journalism prerequisites when I headed off to BYU.

Those journalism prereqs were kind of boring, to be honest. Classes about the basics of AP style really fail to capture the excitement of journalism. But I didn’t have any better ideas, so I applied for the program and was accepted.

I don’t know if this is how they still do it, but back then they throw you right into the fire your first semester in the program by making you a reporter for the school newspaper, at the time known as the Daily Universe (may it rest in peace). You were assigned a beat and spent about a million hours in the newsroom for four credits.

I was assigned the science beat, which was kind of funny considering I’m pretty sure the only reason I got a 4 on my AP Biology test in high school is that even though I couldn’t remember how the processes I was supposed to be describing on the essay portion actually worked, I had read that the judges just looked for vocabulary to check off, so I filled the essay with sentences that said things like, “Mitochondria are also involved.”

My very first story published in a newspaper printed on actual newsprint was a story about nematodes, which is a fancy way of saying I talked to a professor about his research on worms in Antarctica. It was not a very exciting story, but my parents sent me flowers congratulating me anyway, and every time I saw a student reading the paper on campus my head swelled with pride at the thought that SOMEONE IS READING SOMETHING I WROTE, even though in reality they were probably turned to the sports section.

I don’t actually remember a whole lot of other stories I wrote that semester, but a few stick out. One was a series of stories for the 200^th birthday of Charles Darwin, in which I interviewed biology professors who were all very, very big fans of Darwin. Another was a story about 2009 being the Year of Astronomy thanks to the 400^th anniversary of Galileo, in which I interviewed astronomy professors who were all very big fans of Galileo. All in all, it was a good year to be a science reporter.

The other was an interview with a professor who was studying rhinoviruses, and it’s ironic that the things that were groundbreaking to me in the interview, like the concept that people could have an asymptomatic viral respiratory infection they passed on to others unknowingly, are things that more than a decade later I would be reporting on again, this time to much more controversy.

The straw that broke the camel's back

This week I got catcalled.

A (young, female) co-worker and I were walking back from lunch downtown together because we didn't want to drive on the ice, when a group of men in a van slowed down, pulled up next to us and yelled things at us out the window.

On its face, it wasn't really a big deal. Not the first time something like that had happened to either of us, and it certainly won't be the last. But if I had been alone, if it had been getting dark or on a less busy road, I would have been thinking about how if the men, just feet away from me, jumped out and pulled me into the van there wouldn't really be anything I could do about it.

You have to think like that when you're a woman, because from the time you hit puberty society tells you don't go out alone at night or you'll get raped. Don't drink alcohol or you'll get raped. Don't leave your soda unattended or you'll get raped. Don't be alone with men you just met or you'll get raped. Don't wear tight clothes or you'll get raped. Don't stay in a hotel alone or you'll get raped. Don't run with headphones in or you'll get raped. Don't park in parking garages or you'll get raped. Don't wear your hair in a ponytail because that makes it easier for a rapist to grab you and drag you into an alley.

It's hard not to let that color everything you do, to sit and wonder if the man on the other end of the phone you've never met will be offended if you ask him to meet you in a public place for the interview instead of his home as he just suggested. You know that probably nothing will happen if you break these "rules" for not getting raped or otherwise assaulted, but you also know that if something does happen everyone will tsk tsk and say "Well what was she thinking, going for a walk by herself at 11 at night? And in that tight of jeans?"

I personally know people who have been raped. I know women who have been stalked, who have been abused. These things really happen. And you know that if they do, the police might say there's not enough evidence to make an arrest, or the jury might not believe you, or the judge might only sentence your attacker to a few months in jail or even just probation because he doesn't want to ruin a young man's sports career or the middle school girl "came onto" her teacher and he's the real victim for having his reputation ruined.

Sometimes, men don't have to yell dirty, suggestive things at you to make you feel small. Sometimes it's the "harmless old men" who "don't know any better" than to treat the men around you with a certain level of professionalism while at the same time calling you "honey" and "sweetheart" and asking why you aren't married yet instead of answering the interview questions. There's a man who sometimes comes into the newsroom to drop off literature about how women's place is in the home, serving her man, and to chastise our almost-all-female office for having jobs.

This is an actual conversation I had a couple of months ago with a customer who came in to complain he hadn't gotten a newspaper delivered that day:

Me: Here's your paper, sorry you had to come in and get it.
Him: That's OK, it got me out of some housework. I hate housework.
Me: Haha I hate housework too.
Him: Imagine that, a woman who hates housework!
Me: ...
Him: Are you single?
Me: Yes
Him: Maybe that's why.

I didn't tell him to mind his own business because I wouldn't want to lose the company a customer. Most women don't say anything when men make them feel uncomfortable. If you "make a big deal" out of someone being sexist or sexually harassing you, you know you'll probably get labelled an uptight harpy or "Feminazi" or special snowflake or skank who was asking for it or gold-digger looking for an excuse to sue.

Sometimes it's not the personal conversations, it's the whole system that is troubling. Did you know that the government didn't require female-sized crash test dummies to be included in vehicle safety tests until 2011? Before then most automakers only ran tests using dummies that were the size and shape of a man, until eventually someone thought that maybe the reason women were 47 percent more likely to be seriously injured or killed in the same type of crash as a man is because seatbelts and airbags were all designed for someone taller and heavier. Or did you know that in 2014 the National Institute of Health had to tell drug companies and medical researchers to stop using only male animals and men in most of their trials, because that habit might have something to do with the fact that women experience much higher rates of adverse reactions to medication than men?

The idea of a "pay gap" for women and men is more complicated than both sides like to claim, but I do know that all of my brothers went to college with more money in the bank than me in part because before I was old enough for a "real job" people at church only wanted to hire me to babysit five kids for $5 an hour, while they would pay my brothers $20 to spend 45 minutes mowing their lawn. And I know that pay ratio continues into adulthood for unskilled workers who are in female-dominated "pink-collar" jobs like home health aids versus male-dominated "blue-collar" jobs like construction. Even though I'm pretty sure a lot of people would rather install windows than clean up bodily fluids all day.

These types of things have always bothered me. They've always bothered lots of women, sometimes from the time they sat in history class in high school and went days without hearing a woman's name mentioned once. But listening to the future president of the United States brag that one of the perks of fame is being able to grab women by the genitals and get away with it, and hearing about the radio interview where he bragged that the best part of owning a beauty pageant was being able to walk in unannounced on the contestants while they were changing into their bikinis and they wouldn't feel like they could complain  ... and *people decided he still deserved to be the most powerful person on the planet anyway* ... that was the straw that broke the camel's back for a lot of women.

I listened to men -- not just distant strangers on the television but also my friends -- defend him by saying that he hires women so therefore he's not sexist. I felt like I was being told that because I am allowed to leave the house and have a job, that's it. Sexism is solved. Everything else is "just locker room talk."

Screw that. I deserve better, and so do other women.

People were so offended by our newspaper writing an article about a planned women's march nearby that they took time to write hate mail and long rants on Facebook about it. They kept talking (in between their really mature, articulate comments such as "Babys.") about how women aren't going to have their "rights" taken away. But a conversation about Constitutional rights completely misses all of the above problems.

If you're a woman and you don't see what the big deal is, or you are a Republican who feel that despite these being nonpartisan issues today's marches are too anti-Trump for your liking, and so you don't want to march or cheer on the marchers, fine, I can respect that. But if you actively go out of your way to ridicule and demean the women who have decided to speak up, I don't respect that.

When I was a kid, I was told that if a strange man did something that made me feel uncomfortable I should loudly tell him "Stop that."  Nobody told me that when I was an adult that would be considered "whining."

Snowpocalypse

Today, it snowed.

Most winters in the dry part of Oregon, this would be news. "Ah, we got a snowfall this winter," people would say. "How nice that the children get to use their sleds this year."

This winter, however, snow is not news. "It did not snow today" is news. Because for the last two months I think I have gotten more experience driving on snow and ice than I have in my last six years of car ownership combined.

It started out fun. My friends and I decided to celebrate the snow by making use of someone's hot tub, sitting in the hot water and steam as snowflakes gently drifted onto our heads, punctuated by the occasional yelps of whoever was most recently dared to go make a snow angel in their swimsuit.

Soon, however, the snow became less fun. People got into car accidents. Important meetings and fun events were cancelled. Pipes burst. Stores ran out of things. Everyone's car got stuck and had to be pushed out at least once.

Mostly, my own car has been trusty and reliable through the snow, despite its lack of snow tires. But two days when the snow was at its highest, I had to rely on others' better vehicles and winter driving skills to make it to such crucial things as work and the premier of Rouge One.

Driving in the snow in Hermiston is at least better than driving in the snow in The Dalles. Whoever designed the roads in Hermiston understood that it's OK if you have more than six inches of clearance between your side mirrors and parked cars while driving. Also, Hermiston is relatively flat, which means that if you are sitting at a stop sign there is much less chance that your vehicle will suddenly start sliding backwards down the hill while you resignedly make "Sorry" faces at everyone whose car you slide into (this can be fairly amusing to watch but not so funny to experience).

So far I've only had to make the "Sorry if I hit you there's nothing I can do please be nice and don't sue me" face at one person, and he got out of my way.

I used to live in this kind of weather all the time, when I lived in Iowa as a kid. But I've discovered that if love of snow were documented in a line graph, for most people that line dips very suddenly at the point in their life labelled "Got job that requires driving to work every day."

Now, I don't know why any adult would choose to live somewhere like Alaska, where it snows constantly and the temperature dips below freezing every winter. There are so many things about winter that aren't as fun as summer. You have to wear so many clothes in the winter, for example. A sweater, jeans, leggings and multiple pairs of socks take up so much more space in the wash than a T-shirt and shorts, not to mention if you don't want to shrink your sweater it will take approximately 4.6 years to air dry. And speaking of winter clothing, nobody's crush has ever said "Wow she looks really attractive in those snow pants."

Of course there are benefits to winter, some will argue. Hot chocolate, warm fires, an excuse to cuddle up with someone under the blankets ... but first you have to find someone willing to cuddle with you after they've seen you in snow pants.

47 texts

Tonight I was included in a group text asking a few people if they wanted to do dinner later this week. Forty-seven texts later I think we are finally done discussing dinner. Someone is going to pick up their phone later tonight and wonder why they have 47 texts, and then be really annoyed when they find out that all 47 texts are about the point of a progressive dinner (which, it turns out, involves progressing from house to house for each course and not, as my more politically-minded friends would assume, inviting a bunch of liberals around to discuss feminism and gay marriage over vegan entrées).

No matter which group of friends you're texting, in each group text you tend to have a typical breakdown. There's the person who sent the text. There's the people who respond with a simple "I'm in" or "Sounds good." There is the person who decides it's a good idea to have an entire conversation with the original sender via the group thread instead of switching to a private thread. There are the people who get pulled into that conversation against their better judgment. There is the person who lurks, reading the entire conversation without ever actually responding so everyone has no idea if they ever saw the message and plan on attending or have actually been eaten by wolves. There is the person who at some point sends a random text in the middle of the conversation that no one is entirely sure what they meant but at this point no one wants to ask and add another text to the growing number of notifications everyone is receiving. And then there is the person who eventually puts a halt to the conversation with an annoyed text about how their phone is almost out of batteries and they're in a meeting and NOT EVERYONE CARES ABOUT THIS CONVERSATION (but you know I love you guys, smiley face emoji).

That's technology for you: With every new advance in technological communication comes new and inventive ways of annoying each other. When Facebook became popular you may have thought you stopped Aunt Bertha from sending you so many chain emails when you showed her how to post memes to her wall. But then she started sending you Farmville requests and that was somehow even worse. And when email was invented you may have thought that you had found a way to cut down on the number of times your coworker called a 30-minute meeting to come up with a schedule for more meetings. But instead those co-workers just switched to hitting "Reply all" and writing "Thank you for sending this" in response to every email, guilting half the office into doing the same thing so they don't look like ungrateful swine for not being thankful enough for getting the agenda for tomorrow's meeting.

Yay technology.

I'm not sure what the equivalent was back in the olden days.

"Sorry guys, we don't have enough wood to get through the rest of the winter because Dave had to send me 13 different smoke signals last week describing what he had for lunch."

"Dang it Dave, I don't have any more room in this cage for one more carrier pigeon about how the liberal media has been unfair to Napoleon!"

"Dave, I hope it was worth another Pony Express pony dying of exhaustion so you could write me a letter saying "Haha same."

"Dear Dave STOP that's not a period at the end of the sentence STOP I actually mean STOP STOP"

I'm sure 100 years from now there will still be Daves in the world, sending one too many holograms to his friend about what he had for breakfast. And since his friends know they have all been guilty of similar technology annoyances at one point or another in their lives, they will forgive Dave after sending him a hologram saying "Some of us are in a meeting right now, Dave!"