Time for me to whine. Whenever somebody asks me where do I work, I sheepishly mumble “The Nevada Appeal.”
“Oh, you work for the Nevada Appeal, what do you do?” the person replies excitedly. Then I even more meekly reply “I’m the assistant editor.”
Then there’s my nervous pause. Nine out of 10 people respond with something like, “Oh that sounds like an interesting job” and leave it at that. But every once in a while, when I tell people I work for the Nevada Appeal, it’s like throwing meat to a dog.
It reminds me of when I was maybe, 10, 12, I don’t know, and I made the mistake of telling either my mother or father, I don’t remember, “I’m bored.”
“SO YOU’RE BORED, HUH,” — even though I don’t remember which parent responded, I remember the response. All I remember after that as I remember it is I had to do about 563 hours of slave labor and learned to never say “I’m bored” ever again.
It’s the same thing every once in a while when I tell somebody I’m the assistant editor of the Nevada Appeal. I don’t mind when somebody is sincerely looking for help when they ask me a question about the Appeal, but whenever somebody can’t wait to tell me everything that’s wrong with the Appeal, I try to cut them off as soon as I can, give them my number, tell them you’re more than welcome to call me in the office — and walk away.
I know journalists who actually shop, go to the doctor, pretty much do everything they need to do — outside of their community — just because of these awkward situations.
I’m reminded of the episode of “Seinfeld” when he lives out the comedian’s dream and heckles a woman at her workplace.
Sometimes, it’s a journalist’s dream as well.
— Charles Whisnand
