Camping 101 Wednesday, July 30, 2008

In all my 23 years of life, ‘camping’ has never been a word in my vocabulary.  And I never really understood why people were so into it—I mean, I liked being outdoors as much as the next person, but there is a big difference between being outside and sleeping outside.  

But something in the great outdoors was calling me and for some reason I just couldn’t let this pass me by.  Okay, let’s be honest—I just didn’t have anything better to do.

I wasn’t quite sure why, but I was overly excited about the weekend in front of me.  New adventures, the great outdoors and good friends—what could be better? 

I made a trip to Wal-mart for all the necessities and after consulting with a few veteran campers, packed my bags.    

But when I woke up the next morning, panic set in.  What was I thinking?  I couldn’t go camping!  There were so many things I hadn’t thought of until now and were taking over my mind.  Who was I kidding?—this was a bad idea.  

If you know me at all, you know I am more than a little bit girly.  Sure, I don’t mind getting dirty, but I do recognize the value of running water and a flushing toilet.  I thought back to my family and friends’ reactions the day before when I had announced to the world that yes, Justine Rae Sgalio was going camping.  Their stunned responses ran circles through my mind. 

“You?!  Camping?!  I never thought I would hear those two things in the same sentence!” and, “You know there are bugs out there, right?” were among the two that stuck out the most. 

But there were some who had faith in my ability to survive in the wild.  And, according to some professional campers, I wasn’t really camping since we were going to be sleeping in an RV. 

After a quick pep talk and watching two coolers full of alcoholic beverages being loaded into the RV, I was back on track and ready to hit the road. 

The RV we were borrowing (not hijacking as some may claim) for our trip actually belonged to the organization I worked for.  But it wasn’t your typical RV—not only was it bright blue and 30 feet long, it was covered with giant pictures, making it stick out like a sore thumb.  Needless to say the ride up was marked by honking horns, head turning stares and the occasional dirty look. 

I was quite fond of the camp site we had selected partly because it was right on the lake, but mostly because I saw a brick building 50 yards away with what looked like bathrooms.   

I couldn’t wait to get out and explore, but as it tends to, nature called and I headed towards the brick building in the distance to what I thought held the gift of the weekend—flushing toilets and running water.

I sat down and suddenly realized I had made a big mistake.  I felt a cool breeze (not the kind that feels good, I might add) shoot a draft between my legs.  What the hell was that?!  I jumped up and looked down to make sure no one was down there blowing up my skirt.

I was later informed that I was using something called a latrine.  If you aren’t familiar with a latrine, it’s esentially a hole in the ground with a raised seat.  People may try to trick you into thinking it is a real bathroom, but don’t be fooled—it is nothing more than a stationary port-a-john with frequent wind gusts. 

I spent the rest of the weekend peeing in the bushes as much as possible, which I was surprisingly okay with.  In fact, I thought it was pretty cool. 

The weekend primarily consisted of eating, drinking and fishing, which I was perfectly fine with.  We lounged around, took in all the amenities of Mother Nature, and for the first time in a long time I had this strange but comforting sense of tranquility—it must have been something in the air. 

It didn’t bother me that I hadn’t showered in two days (apparently swimming counts as showering when you are camping) and I didn’t even realize I was covered in dirt.  It was awesome.

We cooked over the fire, gazed at the stars and I even watched a fish being gutted and still ate him (we named him Pete if you were wondering).  And even though I got a million bug bites and thought I had West Nile for a week, it was the best weekend I have had in a long time.

My friends, who also experienced my first camping trip, had their doubts about me at first but by the end of the weekend I was told I was “the right guy away from a six-day backpacking trip through Yellowstone.” 

I’m not so sure I would go that far, but I am not ruling it out quite yet.  I do think my camping trips will progress in phases, however.  Phase one (which I have already conquered) consisted of RV or cabin camping; phase two, tent camping; and phase three, sleeping outside with no amenities beyond what you found in the great outdoors.

I have to say, I definitely surprised myself.  Who knows—maybe I’m more outdoorsy than I thought.          

All dogs go to Heaven: A Tribute to Tucson Monday, July 21, 2008

It all started one faithful spring day in 1994 as my mom and I were returning home from a trip to San Diego to visit my older brother at college.

We de-boarded our plane and made our way to baggage claim to meet my Godparents who were picking us up.  We saw Wes first—and for some reason he was holding a video camera and had a shit-eating grin on his face.  It seemed strange, but being eight years old, I hammed it up and rolled with it. 

A few minutes later, we saw Stephanie.  She was holding a little black puppy in her arms wearing a big red bow. 

It was love at first sight.  I named him Tucson, a name I came across in an airline magazine I had been flipping through on our flight home that featured, you guessed it, Tucson, AZ.  Ah, the creativity of an eight-year-old. 

Our first night was a little rough.  Thank God my Dad was out of town—we needed a night to prepare him for what he was about to come home to.  It was then and there we realized we didn’t have an ordinary dog on our hands.

The first few years—okay let’s be honest—the first eight years were a little rough with Tucson.  He spent the greater part of this day chewing on the siding of our house, tearing the stuffing out of our lawn chair cushions (after giving them a good hump, of course) and chasing his tail.  Some experts say a dog chasing its tail is a sign of stupidity, but I think Tucson was the exception—this dog was too smart for his own good.

In his younger years, he loved running the loop of our backyard, working up enough momentum to run up the side of our 6 foot fence to peek his head over.  He even got his foot stuck in between the boards once, leaving him dangling by one of his back legs 5 feet off the ground after trying to chase down a bird. 

Even though he tended to get himself into a little mischief once in a while, he was a good dog at heart.  Every day after school, I would find him waiting for me at our front window—sometimes even standing on top of the dining room table to catch a better view of my school bus. 

I taught him tricks like roll over, shake and play dead, and we even took him on vacation with us to Disney World.  He didn’t actually get to ride the rides with us, but he did ride on the tram from the parking lot. 

Yes, Tucson was a pretty special dog.  He loved his family more than anything (except maybe table scraps) and was the greatest watch dog around.  The UPS man was so scared of him he would throw packages on the porch without ringing the doorbell, seeing it more appropriate to run for his life.  And he frightened the Orkin man so badly once he never came back. 

And like any other dog, Tucson loved his treats.  Even if he wasn’t hungry, he would gladly accept them, hiding them for later throughout the house.  He especially liked treats he wasn’t supposed to have, in particular, chocolate.      

Once, we had a bag of at least six Cadbury Cream Eggs sitting on our kitchen island, and came home to just the bag on the floor.  Positive he had ingested them all and was within minutes of puking all over the carpet, we watched him closely.  But surprisingly, he was perfectly fine. 

Two days later I sat down on the couch.  Reaching in between the cushions I found a half melted Cadbury Egg.  Needless to say we found a few more scattered throughout the house over the next few days, discovering the majority of his secret hiding spots. 

Tucson always had a lot of energy, so it was easy to tell when he wasn’t feeling his best.  A few years ago, our vet suggested an ultrasound when his labs reported his liver function was abnormal.  Being home for the summer on a break from school, I had the pleasure of taking him. 

As I walked into the emergency vet clinic, also a specialty clinic for things like this, I couldn’t help but look around at all the sick dogs.  What was I going to do when Tucson was like this?  In the midst of my thought, we were called into the room.

After the procedure, the doctor came in to speak with me.  With Tucson at my feet, he showed me the pictures they had taken along with the ultrasound.  The doctor explained to me that the right lobe of his liver was significantly larger than his left, which explained his poor labs, and was something that he could not diagnose without exploratory surgery. 

Surgery of course, would require general anesthesia, which with his liver function, was a huge risk.  As he continued to talk, my head began to spin.  I was no longer listening to the words the doctor was saying.  The only thing I could think about was how I could not imagine my life without the heartbeat that was at my feet. 

As we were waiting at the counter to pay, I began to cry.  Tucson could always tell when I was upset.  Whether I was sad about not getting my way as a child, or upset about a boy as a teenager, Tucson was always there.  I felt him nudge my hand, letting me know he was there.  Realizing I had caused somewhat of a scene, I reached down to pet him.  But before I could get there, Tucson took a huge dump on the waiting room floor. 

My sadness instantly turned to laughter and I bent down to thank him for saving me once again from my tears.  No matter what, he always knew just what to do to make everything okay. 

Tucson stuck it out for a few more years after what seemed like a terminal diagnosis.  We almost lost him last summer before I moved away for my first real job, something I saw quite symbolic.

He hung on until this past June, just shy of his 16^th birthday.   He contracted a bad infection, which coupled with his bad arthritis, got the best of him.  Tucson went peacefully in his sleep—something we all thank him for—cuddled up on his favorite brown blanket.

I know Tucson lived a good life.  He taught us more lessons than we could ever have imagined, making us better children, parents, friends and people.  He’s in a place now without sickness and pain, waiting until we’re all ready to go Home for good. 

I’m sure he is up there somewhere chasing birds and eating Cadbury Eggs—but I have to say, I sure do miss him.    

Eye wasn’t ready Wednesday, July 9, 2008

It all started with a scratchy eye. 

I attributed the re-occurring issue to the dry climate and being on the computer all day, but still thought maybe I should get it checked out.  Besides, I had met my health insurance deductible for the year (yes, I know what that means now) and realized that in all my 23 years of life, I had never actually been to the eye doctor.    

I expected scheduling a standard eye exam to be similar to that of a yearly sports physical or bi-annual teeth cleaning.  Nothing is available more than two months in advance unless you are having a problem or some kind of emergency—and I was definitely not having either.

That said I was shocked when the receptionist informed me that she had scheduled me for the following morning.  I instantly felt a wave of panic gush through my bloodstream like a warm shot of Tequila.  Tomorrow?! 

What do they do at an eye exam anyway?  Whatever it is, it can’t be pleasant.  Have you seen those terrible sunglasses people walk out of there wearing? 

I spent the remainder of the afternoon questioning my co-workers and researching the events of an eye exam.  The majority of them eased my worries.  However, I was a bit alarmed when one of my co-workers poked his head over my cubicle and whispered “beware of the puff.” 

When I arrived at my appointment the next morning, a little old lady named Marcel called my name and brought me into a room with a lot of unfamiliar looking machines and giant posters of eye balls covering the walls.  She asked me to sit down in front of the largest, scariest machine of them all and told me to look at the red light. 

I hesitantly obeyed, and seeing a bright flash immediately jumped backwards into my seat.  “Is something wrong?” Marcel asked.  I explained my optical virginity and she kindly offered to hold my hand during the remainder of the retinal scan.  I told her I thought I could handle it.

We then ventured to one of the smaller, less intimidating machines.  Thinking the worst was behind me, I walked into this one with ease.  Marcel told me to focus on the hot air balloon in the distance and the rest would just happen. 

I focused on the hot air balloon with my left eye and heard a quiet beep.  Seconds later, I felt a blast of air penetrate my eyeball.  What the heck was that? 

Obviously shaken, Marcel comforted me.  “Some people call that one ‘the puff’,” she said with a smile.  That explained a lot. 

As I focused on the balloon once again, this time with my right eye, I squinted, in fear of ‘the puff’.  It finally beeped and, as expected, forced a blast of air into my eye.  “Whoops, looks like that one didn’t turn out,” Marcel said. 

Of course it didn’t.

This time, it was serious.  I opened my eye as wide as I could and starred down that hot air balloon like a slutty girl who had just slept with my boyfriend.

The air puffed.  And I didn’t flinch.

Marcel patted me on the back and led me into another room. We said our goodbyes and she wished me luck.  Gosh I missed her already.    

The doctor entered the room a few minutes later.  Projecting rows of letters onto the screen, he asked me to recite row after row, what seemed like a million times.  I read the very bottom line all but twice.

“Great job,” the doctor said.  “You have 20-20 vision.”  Psh, I knew that already.

During the next portion of the exam, the doctor clicked back and forth between two different slides, asking me to tell him which looked clearer.  Now this was easy.   

Confident I had aced the entire exam, I was shocked, and let’s face it, a little devastated when moments later he informed me that I would be needing glasses. 

Glasses?! I was sure I had passed all the tests with flying colors.  I didn’t realize I had blurted this aloud until I heard the doctor explaining to me that was not the way it worked.

I had something called a stigmatism, and he attributed the scratchiness I had been experiencing in my eyes to needing a slight magnification.

Geeze this was confusing.  How could you have 20-20 vision and still need glasses?   

He handed me my prescription and walked me into another room where he introduced me to the lady that helped you pick out your frames.  Was this really happening?!

Twenty-three and losing my vision—looks like it’s all downhill from here. I picked out a pair I could live with and made the slow walk to the car.  At this rate I’m going to need Botox and a boob job by the time I’m 30! 

The shoe room scandal Thursday, June 12, 2008

After very publically getting stuck in a pair of boots only weeks before, I decided it was time to face my fear.  There were plenty of people who wore knee high boots that had calves bigger than mine—it was just a matter of finding that perfect boot. 

It happened unexpectedly, but it just seemed so right.  I stopped by the mall one evening after work and stumbled upon the deal of a lifetime.  A pair of Michael Kors black suede boots.  They were beautiful, and what made them even more beautiful was the price tag—they were on sale for almost a third of their original price.  Was I dreaming? 

After finding a safe place in the corner of the store, I asked the sales associate to bring out my size.  It was the moment of truth. 

I wanted them to fit more than I had ever in my life wanted anything to fit.  More than my high school prom dress, more than my first pair of Sevens and even more than my bras before I went on birth control.  And let me tell you, that my friends, is A LOT. 

She brought them out and opened the box—but inside the box was only one boot.  She explained that the other one was probably just the ‘display’ and scurried off to find it.

While she was tracking down its counterpart, I had a heart-to-heart with its sole mate.  Please, I whispered, please fit.  I began to slide my foot down and inside feeling something I had never felt before while boot shopping—effortlessness. 

It was destiny.  It fit perfectly, with calf space to spare.  I could even take it off without causing a scene.  I walked around the store basking in my success.  I had done it! I had found a beautiful pair of boots for a decent price that actually fit!  

Or so I thought.

As I sat there, anxiously awaiting her return with the other half of my perfect pair, I began to get nervous.  I realized she had been gone for quite a long time. 

A few minutes later she returned empty handed.  “I couldn’t find the other boot anywhere,” she explained unsympathetically.  What did she mean she couldn’t find it anywhere?  It’s a freaking boot it’s not like it just walked out of the store! 

I politely, yet firmly requested that she look again. 

I tried not to let myself hyperventilate.  She would find it, I would buy it, and we would all live happily ever after.  Gosh, the suspense was killing me!

When she once again returned empty handed, I felt the store suddenly get hotter.  Her voice trickled off and everything began to spin.  This could not be happening. 

She apologized and asked if she could assist me with anything else.  “No,” I replied with tears in my eyes. 

I sat there for a minute stunned.  How could the other boot have just disappeared like that?  It just didn’t make any sense.  My retail wheels began to spin.    

The more I thought about it, the more suspicious I became of foul play.  Maybe the matching boot wasn’t really lost.  Maybe it was a matter of someone hiding it.      

Could I have uncovered a shoe room scandal?

As a former retail employee, I knew all the tricks—what was going on sale, when it was going on sale, and more importantly, where to hide the things until payday.       

Just to make sure, I recruited a third party to uncover the truth.  I watched my unknowing accomplice (the only male I could find working in the women’s shoe department) enter the back room with a watchful eye. 

When he came out of the back room empty handed, my heart sank.  But my sadness turned to rage when I saw the female sales associate who had helped me before come out behind him—proof she had sabotaged my quest for the missing boot.    

But I didn’t leave without a fight.  “I hope you enjoy your new boots!”  I sarcastically remarked upon exiting the store. 

I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.    

The Great Flood, Volume I Saturday, May 31, 2008

There once was a period of great drought, but soon— it happened.  Like clowns spilling out of a circus car, there they were. 

Exhibit #1:  Brad, the running coach

Brad was one of my running coaches during my marathon training (please see below for dramatic recounts).  He was nice, maybe even a little bit cute.  In fact, I never thought of him as anything but Coach Brad, until that faithful day in March. 

It was an email I will never forget, but couldn’t delete fast enough—yes, you read correctly, an EMAIL.  We finished training for our race in January, but to selfishly keep up my muscle tone, I had kept in touch with the running group which Brad #1 led. 

In the email he asked if he could take me out for dinner.  At first, I thought nothing of it—he just wants to catch up, I thought.  I hadn’t been to the running group in awhile due to my busy schedule at work, so he probably just wanted to see how life post-race was going.  WRONG. 

I agreed, still thinking nothing of it.  Then came the next email…dun dun dun…he wanted to pick me up.  Uh oh.  This was a date. 

I was going on a date with my running coach, who had seen me at my worst.  He’d heard me whine, seen me sweaty and without makeup (gross), and listened to me cry and bitch for five months straight.  I guess I just never saw it coming—I thought of Brad #1 as more of a father figure.  A dad who just put up with all the crazy things I did and said.  The more I thought about it, the more it freaked me out. 

As the weekend grew closer, I grew more anxious.  But my friends calmed me down reminding me that it was just a date—I didn’t have to marry him.  So, I formulated a plan, mapped it all out and got ready for my big night. 

THE PLAN: 

1. Give the ‘friend’ vibe
2. Offer no physical contact (not even a handshake or a ‘half hug’; we don’t want to send off the wrong message here)
3. Avoid eye contact outside of conversation
4. Go dutch
5. Keep it short and sweet
6. Stay in control (for the most part, this applies to conversation topics, but could also refer to the amount of alcohol consumed)
7. And finally and most importantly, talk about running AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE! 

The day came, and I ended up meeting him at the restaurant—I chickened out at the last minute and told him my Godmother had to have an emergency root canal and she needed me to watch her kids, so it would be more convenient to just meet him there.  It wasn’t a complete lie—it was sort of the truth.  She’d had an emergency root canal, just not that day.  And besides, according to rule #6, I needed to stay in control.    

I walked into the restaurant and found him waiting for me near the hostess stand.  Sticking to the plan, I greeted him with a friendly smile and hello.  He did the same, and informed me that there was a 20 minute wait in the restaurant, but no wait at the bar.  In an attempt to avoid prolonged conversation and some forced awkwardness, I suggested the bar.

As soon as we were seated, I realized I had made a big mistake.  The bar was not just a bar.  It was a sushi bar.  Not only was I going to be on an awkward date, it was going to be over raw food, which at this point, I did not know if I could stomach. 

I had tried sushi before, and would be willing to try it again someday, just not with Brad.  If I am going to put myself through the uncomfortable texture of raw fish sliding down my esophagus, I at least wanted to have it be in the company of someone I was actually interested in.  I ordered a salad and prayed the sight of his food wouldn’t bring me to vomiting. 

Following rule #7, I talked about running as much as possible.  Lucky for me this was one passion we had in common, so it wasn’t too tough.  We then moved on to work and social scenes, but somewhere in between the two something terrible happened.  Brad got serious.

He began telling me about his childhood and his family, going into non-first date detail.  Abort mission!

When he was done eating his smelly, caterpillar-looking sushi, the check came.  I asked if we could split the bill, but he insisted on paying.  Even though I broke rule #4, I didn’t feel too bad about it.   I felt like I did deserve some sort of compensation for having to watch him eat his fishy monstrosity.    

Shortly after, we went our separate ways.  The plan went off without a hitch—and though it was awkward at times, it could have been way worse.  I arrived at my house at 8:01pm, just 61 minutes after I had left. 

I am pretty sure Brad got the message.  I have not heard from him again, and have since found a new running group. 

Stay tuned, The Great Flood, Volume II is COMING SOON!

Run Forrest, Run! Thursday, May 22, 2008

For some crazy reason still unbenounced to me, I decided to run a marathon this year.  It had always been on my big ‘to do’ list (you know, the one that also includes writing a book and aiding in world peace) and thought since I was an ‘adult’ now, that I better get started on crossing things off. 

Believe it or not, I finished the race in a respectable time for my first marathon, and even though I thought I was in hell at mile 21 and gave my parents the finger at mile 23, I am glad I did it.  I learned a lot of valuable lessons about myself and the sport of endurance running during my almost 5 month training, and have included a few of my favorites below. 

1.       Geese are not your friends.  Not only do their piles of green feces get in the way of any activity revolving around any sort of body of water, they are mean too.  While running one Saturday by the river, I noticed a very large group of geese in my path.  In an effort to avoid the swarm of crazy birds, I decided to run through the grass.  Bad idea.  Just as I was passing the last goose, I felt something poking at my already aching calf muscle.  At first I thought it was a cramp; unfortunately I wasn’t so lucky.  I turned around to find a goose chasing me while frantically pecking its beak into my leg.  Apparently getting anywhere near their other ‘green stuff’ ticks them off even more.

2.       Food in the form of a gel tastes as bad as it sounds.  Rumor has it in the running world that if you are running more than 6 miles at a time you have to ‘fuel’.  When I think of the word fuel, I think of the smelly liquid I put in my car every two weeks that costs me entirely too much money, not something I want to pour down my throat.  So, in an effort to find the best tasting ‘fuel’, I decided to shop around.  At first glance, I was optimistic about my fuel options.  After loading up on a variety of flavors including apple pie, cherries jubilee, chocolate brownie and even margarita, I went home for a taste test.  Five minutes into my fuel tasting, I found myself wishing I was drinking gasoline.

3.        Pit-bulls are even scarier when they are chasing you.  It started out like every other Monday evening run.   I was halfway through my ‘80s Rock On’ play list and approaching mile three when I felt something cold and wet brush the side of my thigh.  I turned around in horror to find a very male Pitt-bull chasing me down the street.  Fortunately, despite the Pitt-bull’s notoriously aggressive reputation, this one was friendly.  But I found myself becoming rather annoyed—the dog seemed to think me running down the street was a game I was playing with him.  Seriously, doesn’t he know I’m training for a marathon here?!  I tried waving down cars for help, but wasn’t successful.  People drove by, turned their heads, even slowed down—but no one would acknowledge my wave for help.  A police car even drove by and didn’t stop; he just waved back and kept on driving.  So much for protecting and serving.  I eventually lost him after repeatedly telling him to “go home” and finding him something more interesting to chase—a horse!

4.       Lockjaw can happen to YOU.  Your legs aren’t the only things that get sore when you run long distances, your facial muscles can give out on you just as easy.  Of course, no one bothered to fill me in on this phenomenon.  During my twelve miler a few weeks ago, I was ‘fueling’ (for definition please refer to lesson #2) after mile six when all of a sudden I couldn’t open my mouth wider than to breathe.  Don’t get me wrong— breathing is definitely more important than fueling any day.   But at that point, nothing mattered more than consuming my black cherry flavored Cliff Shot Blocks.  Three square shaped gummy-like chews with just the right amount of caffeine and calories to take me straight to mile 12 (a big step up from the gels discussed in lesson #2 might I add).  I managed to squeeze them through my paralyzed lips into my mouth realizing chewing wasn’t an option—after that it was all up to digestion.  I shot some Gatorade in my mouth and washed those suckers down like a pill. 

5.        Increased muscle mass is not always pretty and can strike when you least expect it.  I was shopping at the mall one Sunday afternoon and found myself lingering in front of a 30 percent off sign.  There they were:  the most beautiful pair of boots I had ever seen, and at such a great price!  I just had to try them on.  They slid on with ease and right then and there I knew it—I was in love.  But my love affair quickly ended in my attempt to take them off.  I recruited a sales associate to assist me and in the meantime attracted the attention of the crowds of people waiting to pay, becoming the object of their amusement for the next 20 minutes…literally.  The girl, who couldn’t have weighed more than 100 pounds, pulled with all her might for a good 10 minutes until we heard a loud rip.  My right foot was free, but needless to say the boot had suffered an injury.  The lining on the inside was ruined, and to make matters worse my left foot was still trapped in the fire.  When it did finally break free, I was sweating, exhausted and quite embarrassed.  The sales associate, noticeably worn-out as well, whispered to me, “Maybe you should stick to boots with zippers.”  Ouch!

Mangers are people too Wednesday, May 21, 2008

I was ecstatic to receive a promotion after only 10 months at my first ‘real’ job.  Finally, a little acknowledgement for the long hours I had put in and the initiative I had shown.  Hard work really does pay off, I thought as our human resources director handed me my fancy new job title. 

Yes, I was a big girl now.  Not only could I save more money, I could afford to make more investments—in my closet that is.  I was living large and in charge, until I made one seemingly fatal mistake. 

Before I knew it, it was time to send out a news release.  I was so excited to see my name as the contact I just couldn’t contain myself.  I proofread it over and over again to make sure there weren’t any mistakes and sent it off to every media outlet in the region.    

 As I was checking out the pick-up on the release the next morning, I noticed an email from one of my co-workers with a link from our Google alert.  Upon clicking on it I was directed to a sports marketing webpage containing my release.  Someone had picked it up!  Oh yeah, I was big time now.  

Later in the day I received an email from my boss asking what I thought read, “Are you really the ‘Manager’ of Media Relations?”  Shocked she doubted the accuracy of my new title, one she herself had given to me, I promptly, and defensively, replied back, “That is what it says on my job description.” 

That’ll show her. 

A few hours later, I walked into her office to find her grinning at me from ear to ear. When I asked her what she was smiling about, she explained to me that I had spelled something incorrectly in the release I had sent out the previous afternoon.  Impossible!  I thought.  I read that thing at least 20 times and even had her proof read it for me.

 She pointed to the bottom of the release to where my shining new title lay, reading: 

 Manger, Media Relations and Communications       

I was mortified:  ‘Manger’ of Media Relations and Communications?!  People were probably laughing me out of newsrooms across the region!

It was all coming together now:  The Google alert email from my co-worker wasn’t to pat me on the back or say good job, it was to make me aware of my mistake—as a lighthearted joke, that is.  And my boss wasn’t questioning my new title she was simply doing the same—bringing to light my comical error.

Looks like I need to learn to read things a bit more closely and keep in mind that though a manger was what Jesus slept in as an infant, it is not interchangeable with my new job title.  Who knew?

Thankfully, no one was hurt during this ordeal—if you don’t count my ego that is.