Friday the 13th – Not Just Any Other Day

“Triskaidekaphobia – fear of the number 13” – http://www.merriam-webster.com.

I don’t fear Friday the 13^th as much as I’ve learned to respect it.

On Friday, May 13, 1988, a letter arrived in the mail that drastically changed my life.

The letter from the San Francisco Bay Area-based Institute for Journalism Education (IJE, now the Maynard Institute for JournalismEducation) informed me that I was invited to an interview at the UC Berkeley School of Journalism, where the institute was hosting a 13-week “journalism boot camp” for aspiring newspaper journalists. A career door finally opened after struggling in dead-end clerical positions five years after I graduated from the University of California, Davis.

That year, I was a secretary-typist for a consulting firm in north Sacramento. In my spare time, I was attending classes at Cosumnes River College in south Sacramento to qualify for internships I later earned at two local television stations – KCRA-TV 3, the NBC affiliate, and KTXL 40, the local affiliate for the new Fox network. I was also writing articles for the Sacramento Observer weekly newspaper, hoping to get some clips for my portfolio.

In the winter of 1988, I had applied to IJE’s Summer Program for Minority Journalists, which takes only 10 people annually out of hundreds of applicants. When I received the rejection letter in March, I figured I would apply to California State University, Sacramento, and work toward my master’s degree in journalism and see if I could get into the field that way. (I’m a big believer in having a Plan B, Plan C, Plan D … you get the idea.)

I arrived home to my South Natomas apartment at the end of a mind-numbing week of work with my bunch of mail from my mailbox. Then I saw the letter from IJE. “What could they possibly want?” I thought. “I was already rejected.”

When I opened the letter and read the contents, my jaw dropped and my eyes filled with tears.

The letter read that I was being invited to a writing test and interview with IJE at the UC Berkeley School of Journalism. I would interview with Jeff Rivers for one of the last few slots. Director Ira J. Hadnot signed the letter.

I was floored. Then I realized what entering the program would mean – 13 weeks in the Bay Area, followed by working for a year with a newspaper that, more likely than not, would be outside California, the home I had known since birth. A mix of excitement and fear prevented me from sleeping well that night.

Long story short, I not only got into the program, I completed it and went to work for The Bellingham Herald, a small newspaper in northwest Washington state then owned by Gannett. (McClatchy now owns the Herald.) I spent 11 months there before returning to California to work for the Daily Republic in Fairfield.

Some people have asked if I regret having been a newspaper reporter. I usually reply, “Never.”

Bad things do happy on Friday the 13^th, but so do good things. I’ve learned that it’s not just any other day. Who knows what will happen today?

Writing Diva

Retirement? What’s That?

Earlier this month I argued with a fellow Sacramento Bee commenter about his contention that Baby Boomers (I’m one.) should retire early to allow younger people to assume their jobs. I responded that I can’t retire because my state pension is being threatened.

Then I read a Los Angeles Times article about a USC Dornsife/Times poll stating that California voters support a cap on pensions for current and future public employees and a later age for collecting them. I raised my hands in frustration. It’s bad enough that Republican state lawmakers want to cut my benefits in exchange for a balanced budget.

I have been an employee of the State of California for 10 years. I joined a state agency in March 2001 after working 12 years in newspaper journalism. I left journalism because increasingly I had to choose between eating and going to work. (I had a coworker ask me how I kept so slim. I replied, "Stress.") I left journalism before newspapers started losing money to the Internet (that is, search engines for articles and Craig’s List for ads). I saw many of my friends and former colleagues either take a buyout or get laid off.

I have been an information officer/editor for my present state agency for five years. I like my job and intend to retire when I turn 67. My retirement age would give me 25 years of state service at 2.5 percent of salary. God willing, I would also earn Social Security along with my individual retirement account and my 401K.

Even when I retire, if I’m still healthy, I plan to work. I hope to work for a media company as an editor, as a typist, or even as a greeter at Wal-Mart. I will retire only when I am physically or mentally incapable of working.

My message to those “young’uns,” as my southern father would call post-Baby Boomers, is, God willing, I’m not going anywhere. Retirement isn’t as it was in my parents’ generation where they could travel around the United States and didn’t have to worry about their next paycheck. If I were a squirrel, I got my nut. Get your own!

Writing Diva

More Facebook Rules for Single People

I just deleted someone I dated from my life for the second time. This time the deletion was via Facebook.

I made the stoopid mistake of befriending someone I used to date via Facebook. In a moment of weakness and loneliness, I sought him out and sent him an e-mail saying "Hi." He, in turn, send me an e-mail saying he wouldn't mind being a Facebook friend. So, I befriended him.

What the $*@! was I thinking?!

I had dated the guy 21 years ago before I joined a journalism program and went to my first journalism job in Bellingham, Wash. Eleven months later when I interviewed for a newspaper job in Northern California, I went to see him and wanted to pick up where we left off. But there was no place to pick up. He uttered those "six words" no lovesick adult wants to hear: "I'm not in love with you."

The plane ride from Sacramento to Seattle and the flight from Seattle to Bellingham were the longest I've ever spent. Even when I flew from Oakland to Miami with a sinus infection, that flight wasn't as long as those.

Anyway, once I signed up for Facebook in February, I became curious about whatever became of the guy. He was indeed on Facebook. It wasn't until a month ago when I sent my e-mail and he responded.

This week he announced on Facebook that he is in a relationship with this trim, petite, beautiful brunette. (He proudly posted the picture. She looked like Sacramento "arm candy.") I mentally kicked myself for befriending him. After 21 years and an involvement that had nothing to do with love on his part, what was the point of being his friend?

I asked a coworker if the guy would know immediately if he'd know that I removed him from my list of friends. When the coworker said, "No," I logged into my Facebook account, found the guy's photo, and clicked the X. When the prompt asked if I was sure I wanted to delete him, I clicked "Proceed." Buh-bye.

I read Facebook's rules and regulations as well as a commonly used list posted by a blogger. I want to add the following: "Unless you are on very good terms with your ex-significant other, do not look him or her up on Facebook. Also, do not befriend him or her on Facebook. It is not worth your dignity."

Writing Diva