It’s not al­ways easy be­ing me

Tri-County Vanguard - - OP-ED - Tina Comeau

A cou­ple of weeks ago I en­gaged a co­worker in a dis­cus­sion about pick­les. I had been at a fast food out­let and some­one in line had or­dered a cheese­burger and asked to have it with­out pick­les.

I never ask restau­rants to leave the pick­les off my burger, I just pick them off my­self. I think I don’t make the re­quest for two rea­sons: I fig­ure it may take longer to get my or­der if it’s ‘spe­cial made’ and I don’t want to cause ex­tra work for the em­ploy­ees. Both rea­sons are ridicu­lous, though, since it would prob­a­bly take less time to not have to slap on the pick­les.

It got me won­der­ing about how many wasted pick­les there are in the world. Are the ma­jor­ity of peo­ple not or­der­ing them, eat­ing them or pick­ing them off?

On Mon­day, I found my­self, once again, pick­ing pick­les off my burger.

And that was the least of my prob­lems.

Mon­day isn’t a favourite day of the week for many peo­ple. It sig­nals an end to the week­end and the start of the school or work week. For us it’s of­ten our busiest and our most pressure-filled day. It’s the day we wrap up pro­duc­tion of this news­pa­per, with a dead­line loom­ing down on us.

As I did most weeks, I spent a lot of time on the week­end, pick­ing off where things were left off on Fri­day, by writ­ing sto­ries, pro­duc­ing page bud­gets and fil­ing con­tent so as to lessen the work­load for ev­ery­one come Mon­day. I prob­a­bly put in about 13 hours of un­paid over­time that I will even­tu­ally re­coup with time off. Yes, we were ahead of the game.

And so when the first cou­ple of emails came through on Mon­day say­ing the pro­duc­tion peo­ple were miss­ing con­tent for pages, I shrugged it off. Some­times doc­u­ment files bounce off the server. No big­gie. We just re­file.

But the emails kept com­ing and com­ing and com­ing. Some­thing was off.

That’s when things went from bad to worse. When I opened up page bud­gets to re­mind my­self of what we had filed for cer­tain pages the bud­gets were blank pages. One af­ter an­other af­ter an­other.

And when I opened up files of sto­ries I had writ­ten over the week­end – there were at least three of them – all of those pages turned up blank as well, even though the text had been there on the week­end, espe­cially in that al­limpor­tant mo­ment when I had hit ‘save.’ I opened more than a dozen pages. All blank. All my work gone.

I had an ‘Oh my God,’ mo­ment. Ac­tu­ally, I kept hav­ing it over and over and over again, in be­tween fran­tic calls to our I.T. depart­ment and pro­duc­tion depart­ment.

“It’s all gone!” I told them, on the verge of tears.

As read­ers you all don’t want to pur­chase this news­pa­per and see blank pages. So now in­stead of hav­ing to fin­ish up two or three sto­ries in a few hours, I had to write five or six in ad­di­tion since I had to re-do all of my week­end work since no mat­ter what we tried, we couldn’t re­cover the copy.

I would have gladly eaten 16 jars of pick­les in­stead. And I hate pick­les.

Oh well, years ago I adopted a motto in life: ‘It is, what it is.’ And boy was it ever.

It could have been worse, I sup­pose. The pre­vi­ous evening I could have suf­fered a painful in­jury to add to my mis­ery. I had got­ten up off the couch and took a step when not only did I trip over my lap­top cord, but the cord com­pletely tan­gled around my an­kle.

The next thing I knew I was fly­ing hor­i­zon­tally through the air – while spin­ning in ro­ta­tion. Pic­ture a re­ally awk­ward wrestling move, but with no op­po­nent!

As luck would have it in­stead of crash­ing to the floor I made a soft, cush­ioned land­ing, on my back, on our brown leather chaise – mean­ing I had flown a dis­tance of about four feet.

No one was around to wit­ness this, but had they been they cer­tainly would have laughed. I laid there my­self laugh­ing for about three min­utes.

Def­i­nitely not my most grace­ful mo­ment.

Af­ter the day I’ve had to­day, tonight when I fling my­self on the chaise it will on pur­pose. Hope­fully I’ll still feel like laugh­ing.

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