Top Twenty of TwentyTen

It's that time of year to look back on... well, the year.

Radio stations are starting to countdown the top hits of 2010 (my fav- I Like It by Enrique and Mr. 305, Pitbull), TV stations are ranking their ratings-grabbing stories (one of my favs *ah nostalgia*- from my time at KELO- Wasted in Whiteclay)... even YouTube has a list of its top videos for the year (obviously, Antoine Dodson is a hero of mine).

I thought I could mimic these lists with a Top Ten Whatever... but I reminded myself that pictures are worth 1,000 words. Instead, here's a tour of 2010 through my eyes (or a lens, rather).

Oh, and my Ten favorite moments quickly turned to Twenty. Twenty-Ten was a good year.


*New*


*VIP*


*Sacred*


*Birthday*


*Goodbye*


*Hello*


*Mentor*


*Sister*


*Pride*


*Change*


*Party*


*Guests*


*Brother*


*Spirit*


*Speed*


*Strength*


*Elation*


*Laughter*


*Home*

If you're keeping count, I have one spot left. I am reserving it for a photo on Naples Beach with my parents, who this year would not have been possible without. They've kept me afloat during this move and change in my life... and based upon the pictures I just went through, I have a lot to thank them for.

There are people who came in and out of my life this year who made more of an impact than they'll ever know or I'll ever admit. Here's to an amazing year of growth, both personally and professionally, and to the hope that 2011 will be even better. Mazel.

Holidays At Home

Tis the season for reporters to relax. The November ratings book has come and gone.

In that time, so did the newest addition to the Collier bureau. The search continues for a replacement.

The sun goes away sooner and I've actually gotten to wear sweaters a few times. The AC is officially off. Boating is straight-up cold. Still... the water's not frozen... so we grin and bear it.



This is winter in Southwest Florida.

This is the first time in my life I've been able to wear flip flops in December. Though there's no snow on the ground, it definitely feels like winter. Not in the atmospheric sense... but the feeling you get when you know it's almost Christmas.

I spent my Thanksgiving working. We covered the normal homeless turkey feed story that every station in America likely does each year. This year, though, I met a very inspiring woman named Hillary.

For the first time in her life, Hillary and her two girls were spending their holiday in a shelter. She'd held an administrative position at a community college for nine years before being laid off last fall. Soon her savings had diminished and she found herself with only $100 to her name-- she came to St. Matthews House, a Naples shelter, for help. She is the unfortunate example of a sign of the times.



By 6:00 that night, I had put in a full day's work and still gotten a chance to eat a Thanksgiving meal with C, my photographer. Still, I couldn't help feeling homesick. It was one of the first times I've felt that way since moving to Florida.

I didn't like it.

I spent the whole weekend in my apartment-- shut off from the rest of the world-- wearing sweats and eating pumpkin pie. I drank wine and I cried. I let myself be a total baby from Friday to Sunday... and then again on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of last week. I overanalyzed my decision to come to Florida, ate almost every meal in bed, and hit the snooze for literally 40 minutes almost every day. I was a total bitch at work and found myself needing to count to ten a LOT.

You could say I went off the deep end.

Don't worry-- I've since snapped out of my tantrum; and today I tackled the pile of laundry that accumulated while pouting for a week and a half.

That's when the strangest thing happened.

I had just taken clothes out of the washing machine and sorted out what was to dry and what needed to be hung up, when into the laundry room walked a familiar face:

Hillary.

We instantly recognized each other. This woman had cried to me while I blinked back tears on Thanksgiving day, and now a miracle has happened for her. A private condo owner in my complex apparently has a deal with St. Matthew's House-- if a person at the shelter qualifies, they can live in one of these condos while they get back on their feet. She, Hope, and Faith moved in on Friday. Finally, the stability of a place to call home after being considered homeless just a week earlier.

This really stuck with me. The whole time I've been in Florida, it has felt very temporary. It is time I start treating it like home. A home is not something to take for granted.

I went to my spare closet, and pulled out my Christmas tree. It's something Scott and I did together, but today, I put it up myself. It was frustrating and a little emotional, but it looks beautiful.



I couldn't help but think of Hillary... my story subject... my new neighbor.
She and I will both spend our first Christmas in a new home... and we're both going to be alright.

Energizer Bunny

To say I’ve been too busy to blog would be an understatement.

It would also be a lie of omission.

And since this is the Internet, and I fully support the free-flow of ideas and information, I need to be 100% honest with all of you.

I’ve been too damn tired to blog.

There. That’s more accurate.

Things have changed around here. The Collier County bureau is no longer (wo)manned by the dream team— Lindsay was moved to weekend anchor at the end of August, which also means she moved to the main station in Lee County.

And until just about a week ago, that meant I was the sole reporter in the largest county in the state of Florida—the fourth largest county in the country.

To make up for the lack of second reporter, there were just a handful or so days throughout the entire month of September and first three weeks of October where I did just one story per day’s work. There was one day when I did a story in the morning that was edited just in time to shoot another story in the afternoon, and as C was slamming to edit that, R set up my live shot on breaking news. Even now with a new reporter starting, I’m still pulling double duty many days while she gets acquainted with the station.

This is not a complaint.

Most of my friends know I love my job so much it’s probably not healthy. I have wanted more responsibility since starting here six months ago, and now I’ve got it. I love owning a story and a beat and consistently stomping the competition. Deadline pressure—bring it on. But that all comes with an adrenaline rush so strong that at the end of the day, all I have energy for is to take off my work clothes, put on pjs, and crawl into bed.

Imagine pixi-stix… dumped into Red Bull… mixed with a double-shot carmel macchiato from Starbucks… with a side of Diet Coke.

… funny… that sounds like my last three meals… minus the Red Bull and pixi-stix.

Anyway. The crash that comes after that kind of rush is one that cannot be cured with a simple glass of water or healthy meal. I need 10 hours of sleep, minimum, to even be able to function the next day. Still, there are things I need to update you all on, so here goes—

-I’ve made friends here that have made this feel a little less like a tropical fantasy island and more like home. I always have an option for happy hour, a closet to shop in, and plans for the weekend.



- That being said, I still jumped on the chance to fly back to the Midwest earlier this month—even though it was just for a very quick trip. The first weekend in October was DDays, aka homecoming, aka the greatest party anywhere. It was so fun—I saw almost all of my closest friends from college, and got to hang out with my family. I also saw Scott. That was… hard… but I think we both needed the closure. I’ll leave it at that. I also got to see colored leaves, which we don’t have here.

- That brings me to my next point—I’ve been having serious trouble remembering what day it is, what month it is… what season we’re in. The only reason I know it’s supposed to be fall are the Puffs Plus with Lotion commercials (the ones with the animated kids throwing snowballs) and the Tweets from people in the Black Hills describing ice-covered roads. Magazines are showing off sweaters while I am sweating. We broke a record high earlier this week. I am, however, wearing boots whenever I can… because Fall is still my favorite.

- As mentioned, sweeps starts tomorrow. It’s hard to believe that I’ve already been through one sweeps cycle here—November is the big one. I can expect to be twice as tired as I am today on Thanksgiving… and oh, I’m working that day, too.

- Politics in Florida are even worse than politics in South Dakota. Some days I feel like if I see one more political ad I will literally go crazy. I can recite most of them in my sleep.



Speaking of sleep… I did say how tired I’ve been, yes? It is way past my bedtime. I will try to never go this long without a real update again (Sorry Ash and Tiff, the only two people I KNOW will read this)!

time flies when you're busy

Forgive me for not blogging...
I have a LOT to catch up on...

My weekends are always busy.




I managed to squeeze in a (tiny) trip home!



Now, my weeknights are filling up, as well.



It is a gift and a curse!

I promise I will update soon.

Meantime, peep this :)

Little Boxes... On The Hillside...

I have mentioned before my severe addiction to TVD. From Friends to Full House, I’ve watched them all… usually hours on end— sometimes, in a bunk bed. TVD saved me from certain death by way of hangover many times in college. My long-time roommate Tess and I would make our room as dark as possible, pop a fresh season into the DVD player, and stare at the 13” TV until we fell asleep. One day in particular sticks out in my mind; the day my life was changed by a Showtime series called Weeds.

Anyone who knows me knows I do not condone drug use. Yeah, yeah, I am a square… but I think it makes you lazy and for someone with high (no pun intended) ambitions, the risks are too great. When I heard about a drama featuring a suburban mom selling weed to keep her family living the lifestyle they’d grown accustomed to, I convinced myself I would hate it.

Boy, was I wrong.

The Botwin family quickly became a staple in my life. Right now, I do not have Showtime, and I am on the edge of my seat waiting for the current season to come out on TVD. The writing in that show is SO good… I can’t even believe it. If you haven’t seen an episode, you need to invest in a Blockbuster card immediately and rent seasons 1-5. You won’t regret it.

The heroine of the show, Nancy, is good at what she does. For being a housewife, she falls into the drug game rather seamlessly… even with bumps along the way she manages not to get caught. Seems recently, pot pushers in Collier County, Florida could learn a thing or two from her.

In the past week, law enforcement here has removed 655 marijuana plants from area growing operations— two were growhouses, one was a highway bust.

As Heylia James would say, serious shit calls for serious cash... this shit did NOT have a sense of humor.

The busts add up to more than $2-Million worth of green (pun intended).


Last Wednesday we were the only crew on scene as Sheriff’s officials pulled plants from an East Naples barn…




Friday, we got an exclusive interview with Florida Highway Patrol following their major bust on Interstate 75…



And today we staked out a home in Golden Gate Estates after officials pulled 424 plants from a home and camping trailer in one of the most isolated parts of Collier County…



And they're all made out of ticky tacky... and they all look just the same.

Home To Me Is Reality, And All I Need Is Something Real

I promise you, my apartment smells better than yours right now.

Try the white glove test. You won’t find any dust here.

A bigger neat freak than even Kim Kardashian herself (if you don’t understand that reference, I must ask… what DO you watch on Sunday nights?!), the past week of my life has been dedicated to restoring my apartment to its full cleanliness and cuteness potential after spending the first week of August with three of my closest friends as houseguests. Kayla and I welcomed Bre, Erin, and Dustin into our two bedroom apartment for a full week before they drove back to Iowa with her so she could start grad school.

That’s right.
Five people.
Two bedrooms.
One bathroom.

It got a little crowded to say the least.

Still, it was good to be surrounded by some of my favorite people; friends who have known me for years instead of just a few weeks. The kind that know all my darkest secrets (and trust me, they have a few), who have seen me through the highs and lows of college and my first job. The kind of friends I can go without speaking to for months and pick up like we didn’t miss a beat over Facebook chat.

*It's something free that means a lot to me...
when I'm with my friends I feel home*



Bre in particular has played a major role in my success to date. When I completed my internship with KELO, they asked me to stay on as a weekend reporter—great news, but living at college an hour away made it tough. Bre gave me the keys to her apartment and let me use it as my own during the fall of 2007. This was before we even became close friends. That’s just the kind of person that she is. She was one of the only people I told I was applying for this job back in March, and even then, she promised to visit.




She’s good at keeping promises.

Their Florida vacay was filled with drinks…



beach…



drinks…



karaoke…


Ok, the karaoke may have been just me…

drinks…



tattoos…



… and more drinks.



I probably drank an entire bottle of Patron XO that week. I needed it, because Saturday morning bright and early, Kayla and friends packed up the Chrysler and hit the road.

Kayla and I went through a lot this summer; we definitely proved that nothing can come between a 20-year friendship. That being said, her bed wasn’t even cold when I started to clean her room out.

I had a two bedroom in Rapid, but even when I didn’t have roommates, the spare didn’t exactly pass as a guest room. Air mattresses just aren’t as welcoming as a real bed, even if they are covered in a down comforter and a half dozen pillows. ‘Kayla’s room’, as I am required to call it, is now all cleaned up, decorated how I want, and hauntingly empty.

I had my first full Saturday alone in my place this past weekend, and as I was going through bills (as that’s the only mail I get… aside from a Glamour subscription), my remote landed on a Travel Channel special on the Black Hills.

Mt. Rushmore, Crazy Horse, the Badlands, Deadwood, Spearfish Canyon—you name it, they covered it, and I had, too. A flood of memories came rushing back to me.



Today marks four months since I left South Dakota.

I’m officially well over the three-month hump that makes living anywhere feel like summer vacation. During every internship, every long stretch away from home, at the end of August it’s time to return to normal.

Today officially marks the longest I’ve ever lived this far away from home. It’s also the first time I’ve ever been homesick.

I don’t know if it was the Travel Channel, seeing Kayla and friends leave, or the onset of an emotional hangover that comes after a three-month alcohol binge, but Saturday night, sitting at a booth in my new ‘regular’ bar with new friends, I ached for the Midwest. It was the first time I’d ever second-guessed my decision to leave… that maybe the grass wasn’t greener on the other side of the country.

If it seems like it’s been awhile since I’ve blogged, called, emailed, texted, or Facebooked, don’t take it personally. I think it’s been easier for me to move forward in my life by ignoring that my past exists, because it is so easy to fall back into old habits and want to be back home.

My friends posted more than 100 pictures online from their recent trip to my new home. Seeing where I lived through their eyes reminded me how privileged I am to be living here and pursuing my dream.

It’s easy for the shine of a new place to wear off and become routine, and in just four months I had forgotten just how gorgeous this place is.

Seeing all of South Dakota’s landmarks on TV made me sad, but seeing my friends’ vacation photos reminded me that home will always be there in the people that I love.

Now that I’m four months into my two-year commitment, it’s time to really make new memories in a place I’ll no doubt watch on the Travel Channel in my next market.

*And in a thousand years and a thousand tears...
I'll go and find my original crew*

Yes, Mom, I AM Alive...

I have been bad at blogging lately.

What have I been good at? Life.

Here is what I've been up to, in pictures:



Beaching with friends...



Karaoke... a LOT of karaoke...



Dressing up babies like dolls for photos...

Tomorrow... tattoo party. This weekend Kayla leaves and I will be lonely... living it up while we still can!

xoxoxo

Tales From I-75

Let's try a little experiment.

I want you to clear your head for a minute. Go into your happy place. That moment of clarity just before you drift off to sleep- complete emptiness. Nothing but the back of your eyelids. Now, I want to know the first thing that comes to mind when the word

FLORIDA

pops into your focus.

People back in South Dakota and Iowa are no doubt thinking Alligators! Swamps! Airboats! at this moment.

If you live where I do, you're thinking Beach! Palm trees! Paradise! as Naples is the most beautiful place in the state (I may be a little biased... but it has to be pretty damn close).

However, if you live just two hours North or East, the adjectives to describe your little piece of the Florida shoreline are completely different. Though they're just a short drive on I-75 in either direction, St. Petersburg/Tampa and Miami are a world away from the Paradise Coast.

Stay Classy, St. Pete
My dear friend Nicole, bless her heart, lives in downtown St. Pete. Her apartment is probably the cutest thing I've ever seen-- especially considering her surroundings. Now, I would never say that she lives in the ghetto... her neighborhood is just... what's the word... Quirky? Kitchy? Sketchy...? (jk love you Nic!)

We visited a few weeks ago and during a walk to a nearby establishment were greeted by a shaking, screaming bush (or a homeless man making a bed for himself amongst the rocks and fireants). The sad thing is, he had more class than most people in the bar we were about to enter.

One thing I can't stand is a man in a tank top. It's one thing to cut the sleeves off of an old t-shirt to shoot hoops on the weekends or change the oil in... it's something completely different to walk around in public displaying your 'muscles' and barbed-wire tattoo proudly for the world to see. Apparently, the menswear stores in St. Pete only carry tank tops. The bars were full of them... most accompanied by too much hair gel and orange skin. I felt like I was on the Jersey Shore... stalking my whole life down on the boardwalk.

It's not just the guys. The women there are gems, too. Nic has her competition worked out for her. We spotted this girl digging for... something... as she waited for her drink. A picture is worth 1,000 words.



The good thing about St. Pete is that the bars stay open until 3:00 am! So by the time you're ready to go home, if you *want* to take someone with you, they at least look better through your beer goggles and dim lighting (but I'd hate to see them when you wake up... Yikes!).

Hot Mess Miami
His Highness LeBron James invited me to his South Beach cabana party after signing with the Miami Heat earlier this month. I thought, why not? and hit the road.

Ok, so that's not entirely how it went down. Nicole needed a weekend out of St. Pete (and now you can see why) and Kayla and I are always up for a road trip, so we packed up the Corolla with our most Kardashian-esque outfits and cruised Alligator Alley straight to the East coast.

The Friday we went just happened to be the day after King James made his announcement on ESPN, shattering the hearts and dreams of the entire state of Ohio and simultaneously prompting a week-long party in Miami. We'd lucked out and gotten a room in central South Beach for just $90 per night... just steps from Dash and within blocks of all the shopping, dining, and drinking we could handle.

By lucked out, I mean we were lucky to even get a room. James' announcement quickly filled up area hotels (ours even overbooked) to the point that we couldn't even get an air mattress sent up to our room.

Why an air mattress, you ask?



Again, a picture speaks 1,000 words. One bed, three girls... 'nuff said. The 3.5-star hotel room I thought I'd booked with *two* beds came with just one... which made for one uncomfortable night of passing out before I gave in and made a nice bed of sheets on the floor.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

Determined to have a good time, we drank ourselves into an abyss on Friday night. Despite promises on every marquee, flyer, and handout we collected between clubs, we saw no LeBron, Dwyane, Bosh, or any other celebrity while we racked up a $300 collective bar tab.

As a self-proclaimed party animal, I don't typically leave the bar until the lights are being turned on and chairs are being flipped onto tables. Miami clubs don't provide these social cues that it's time to go home. Miami clubs are dark and they don't close. We weren't in bed before 4 either night.

Saturday we spent the day recovering, and caught a second wind long enough to go find beer at a pharmacy to pregame (in hopes of spending less than $300 on a night of drinks).

That's when the real stress of Miami got to me.

While trying to parallel park my car into a spot the size of a matchbox on a one-way street with traffic flying toward me, I nearly killed a pedestrian. Thank God for Kayla yelling "YELLOW LADY" to the woman resembling Big Bird and the concierge running out to my rescue to park my car safely until the valet came back.

"Life is hard," I said to him.
"At least you weren't born ugly," he said back. Thanks, sir.

En route to our luxury room, my worst nightmare came true. I have a weird thing about elevators-- it's not bad to the point where I can't use them, but I don't love them. The feeling that the ground isn't solid below you as you go up and down gets me lightheaded and slightly claustrophobic. So when the elevator STOPPED mid-ride and the door wouldn't open, I came as close to having a panic attack as I ever have. Kayla immediately started saying Hail Mary... I dropped to the ground and cracked one of our freshly-purchased beers.

It was the worst two minutes of my life.

Then my hair started giving me trouble. Nicole and Kayla had it with waiting for me, so they went to the hotel bar for free-drink happy hour without me... I said I'd be right down. Of course, when it came time to go to the bar, the elevator was 'Out of Order'... so I proceeded to take what I thought were the stairs.

Wrong.

I found myself, instead, in a service stairwell for employees only. You know, the kind that you need an employee key to get out of.
Kayla was not being particularly helpful at this point. This is how our conversation went:

"Kayla, I need you to go to the front desk and have someone let me in."
(screaming) "Karla, your hair is fine!!! We have a drink waiting for you, hurry up!"
"No, listen, you don't understand... I'm stuck in a stairwell!!"
"We met French guys... They want to meet you! See you soon!!!" Click.

I sent her this.



She got the hint.

The most stressful hour of my life was not going to ruin my night-- we must have been looking better than the night before because we didn't pay any covers and I barely remember paying for drinks.

I crawled into my makeshift-bed on the floor around 4:30 and was more than ready to go back to the slow, elderly, leisurely city of Naples the next morning. Nothing like a two-hour drive to another city to make you appreciate what you have in your backyard.

Case of the Mundays

I had a rough day at work. What's worse- the competition had a field day. This, coming off of a high of two weekend trips to top 20 markets, fresh with dreams of appearing on TV screens in more homes than my first two jobs combined.

In the news business, you're only as good as your last story... but you also get a fresh start every day.

I'm looking forward to a second chance tomorrow.

STAY TUNED FOR STORIES FROM TAMPA/MIAMI!

The Game of Love

Typically, Mondays are not my favorite. I hate getting back into the groove at work, and the week seems so long. However, in my adult life, I’ve found a way to remedy the ‘Mundays’-- I’ve spent a great deal of evenings with a glass (or four) of wine, good friends, and the American Broadcasting Company.

Each season, there is a new cast of characters on one of TV’s most popular reality franchises; during my teens and early twenties I got to know them with my sorority sisters in the basement of Alpha Phi, and as I started my career I tore their flaws apart with my best girlfriends in my tiny Rapid City apartment. I’ve laughed at how cheesy some of the lines are and cried at the thought of finding true love in a room full of gorgeous people, yours for the picking. You’ve probably guessed by now—I’m talking about the Bachelor and Bachelorette.

Save your judging for the rose ceremony, please.



I watch/write/live/breathe the news 90% of my waking hours. This show is a straight-up guilty pleasure. Now, I’m not stupid—I don’t believe in finding love via reality show… but isn’t it nice to think it could be possible for someone else? Of course, most relationships born on that show crash and burn as quickly as they’re made.

Tonight, a total d-bag was sabotaged by the woman he called the love of his life. Some entertainment wrestler (Seriously… that’s your profession? Really? How did you ever get dates to begin with?) from Canada (Way to make your already lame country proud) apparently had a girlfriend the entire time. He thought doing the show would make him ‘famous’ (REALLY?!) and had promised her they’d get married after he left the show (Because that’s what ever girl wants… to marry a guy after he’d been publicly dismissed on a reality series).

Obviously, there are a lot of rumors that come with the territory when you’re a reality ‘star’—but these allegations were backed up with proof, in the form of several voicemails.

Idiot.

Technology has changed the way courtships begin and relationships end. I am fresh off of a breakup and in no hurry of jumping into this dating game, but the entire game has changed during the past three years. It’s now possible to contact anyone in the world at home, work, by cell, email, text, Skype, Twitter, and Facebook accounts at once; and, if you are lucky, they can choose to reciprocate immediately. It also makes it that much easier to get rejected… 8x over.

One of my closest friends has no problem meeting guys the traditional way—she is gorgeous and men are drawn to her. She’s also really nice… I always tell her I have ‘F- You’ on my forehead while she has ‘Thank You’ on hers. That could be why she has to screen calls and texts from various men at all hours of the day.

One of the most offensive things to me is voicemail. Seriously, I don’t check them. If you’re leaving them, you can pretty much guarantee I’m clearing out my counter without listening. Unless it’s work-related, send me a text or call me back, because the steps involved in checking voicemail are not worth my time.

My friend has gotten several voice messages from a certain suitor over the past few days. The only thing worse than leaving a voicemail to begin with, is leaving one where you say nothing. If you’re getting sent to voicemail more than once a day, it doesn’t mean you need to leave more messages; it means you need to stop calling and wait for the person on the other end to contact you. Have you ever used a cellular phone? They all pretty much work the same—missed calls show up on a missed call counter… the person you’re trying to reach will see that you tried. Be done with it.

Texts are a little more tricky. You never know for sure if your texts are being delivered or just being sent into a satellite somewhere in space, never to be seen again.

I’m being sarcastic.

When was the last time someone legitimately missed your text? Come on. There is a cell phone tower on every block. She got your text, and if she didn’t respond to your comment about the weather, or what you bought at the mall, or what kind of toothpaste she used that morning to clean the crud off her teeth, it’s because she doesn’t want to talk to you, not because she didn’t receive the message.

The worst yet most entertaining thing that happens when texts are not returned is the awful one-sided conversation the textee begins to have with themselves. Here is an example from the aforementioned friends’ phone:

Annoying: 10:41 pm Hey, what’s up?
Annoying: 10:46 pm I’m just chilling at x bar
Annoying: 10:57 pm Well just checking to see how you’ve been. Hope you’re good and enjoying life!
Annoying: 1:06 am thisbeertasteiasliekhavean
Annoying: 10:32 am Woah, sorry about that… obviously I was a little toasted last night. Sorry to be annoying.
Annoying: 11:18 am I don’t understand…

WHAT DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?! SHE DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING!!!

Turns out, this serial texting is more common than I realized. Another good friend of mine has had her inbox filled with one-sided Wikipedia definition conversations from a pest that wouldn’t let up. The relationship was born from a form of dating that interestingly involves the very same technological advances that I believe have made things so difficult for those looking for love.

She has an online profile, and has been contacted by just about every type of man you can imagine.

Putting yourself out there takes a special kind of girl, and I totally commend her for exploring every avenue to find the man of her dreams. But I doubt she planned to find one that had the woman of his dreams so clearly planned out in his head, he’d mapped the mathematical equations to prove it when it happened.

I’m not exaggerating. And to top it, he typed it out for the world to discover with a simple Google search.

In this world of need-to-know, up-to-the-minute 24-hour news ticker and social media crutch, I canNOT believe this girl didn’t type the man’s name into a search engine before going out with him. It’s literally the first thing I do when I meet someone new, and I don’t think that makes me crazy, I think it makes me savvy. You never know who you are dealing with in this big world; you might want to check that he, at the very least, isn’t on the sex offender registry.

It actually took a whole date (which he stiffed half the bill on) and an hour-long conversation (where he knew tons of facts about her hometown AND found her on YouTube) before it dawned on me she hadn’t looked him up at all.

I took it upon myself to search his name, and came upon his blog. It's taking every bit of class I have not to link it here.

Here’s just a taste inside the man’s head—taken DIRECTLY from his online posted requirements for his future wife.



As for my friend… she’s taken her profile down for a few weeks. And I am taking solace (pronounced sall-ahs) in the fact that even those who know how to play the game have a bad season every once in awhile.

It's All About the Benjamins

I grew up in tiny-town USA. We’re talking less than a thousand people total; 37 in my graduating class. If you were stranded with a flat tire, people would stop and help… and I don’t mean pulling over to let you use a cell phone—they would get out and change it for you or take you home, even if it meant they’d be late for dinner. I don’t remember ever locking the doors at home, and the select few in town who did freely gave out their garage code to friends and neighbors. If it was harvest season, you could be late for school, no questions asked (driving a John Deere isn’t exactly speedy).

You get the picture.

Everyone knew everything about everyone. Good luck getting away with much before your parents, grandparents, cousins, and your first-cousin twice-removed-who-lives-an-hour-away finds out. But it wasn’t just what you were up to… people knew everything. Including, in some cases, how much your family made. By age 7, you had a clear idea of who the ‘rich kids’ were in your class- it was obvious who was putting money in the collection plate at church and who was simply passing it along.

That being said, it wasn’t, and still isn’t classy to talk about money. Not the case here.

People lead with their money.

I found this out very early on during my first outing on 5th Avenue. It was a reunion of friends from, believe it or not, South Dakota. LK lives here in Naples and Nic lives up in St. Pete (bless her heart). It didn’t take long for us to realize we were a world away from the Spearfish Wal-Mart parking lot where we met two winters ago. Our tab was graciously paid by the CFO of a major insurance company—one that you’ve heard of (think this jingle: da-da-da is on your side). He started to ask about what we do for a living and how we move up in our careers.



“If not money… what motivates you? What else is there?” he asked. I tried explaining that at age 23, quality of life doesn’t necessarily mean you have a quantity of bills in your wallet… but it was clear after about 15 minutes of arguing the point that we lived in different worlds. “I pay a girl $80,000 a year to write press releases for me… is that comparable to what you do?” No sir, it’s not.

Not even close.

A week later, Kayla moved in. She wasn’t in Florida for 5 hours before she realized how bad the rich-idemic is here. We were bellied up at the bar (not being antisocial… at this point K was still on crutches from breaking her pelvis… which is another blog altogether) when a tall, cute, perfect-for-Kayla guy approached us.



Now guys, take note-- bars are loud. If you want to engage in conversation, you’re going to need to talk a bit louder than normal.

This guy was whispering. I was several drinks in, and more than a little annoyed.

After asking him to repeat himself about 11 times, we finally heard his voice go to what could be considered a normal volume. What he said, I wish I hadn’t heard…

“You girls don’t understand. I’m like, really rich.”

I’m not kidding. Verbatim. Next.

I could let this stuff go if these were isolated incidents, but it’s a near-nightly occurrence. Just this past Saturday, we were celebrating a birthday with a group of co-workers and some of their friends from outside the office. As I know, nothing good happens after 2 a.m., so when we were invited to an after-bar with some of our new drinking buddies, we declined.

About an hour later, I got a text message: You girls are missing out. We are in a million-dollar condo… missed ur chance!

I’m good with my rental, thank you. That number is now listed as DO NOT ANSWER in my cellular.

Thank You For Being A Friend

In my 23 years, I’ve made a lot of friends. I’ve known Kayla for 20 years- others, I’ve known for less than a month. Friends I can count on to grab apps and taps after work… friends I can count on to tell me which dress looks better in Banana Republic. I have friends I talk to every day and friends I could go months without speaking to without missing a beat.

815 on Facebook, if we’re counting.

But there’s one friend I’ve developed a unique bond with. She’s seen me cry hysterically, and laugh just as hard. She’s suffered the brunt of my anger and the high of my joy. She’s traveled between time zones hundreds of times on I-90, been through the desert and back and has spent weeks at a time buried under several feet of Black Hills snow. And just over a month ago, she took her last long roadtrip with me, loyally getting me to my new home in Florida before starting to really piss me off.


I’m talking about the Chevy 4-Door-Blo-Dro.

I got my Cavalier following a rough time in my driving record. If we’re being honest, ‘rough’ is probably not the right word… more like ridiculous.

At 16 I thought I was invincible. I drove too fast on a regular basis—getting pulled over by the same cop on the same highway doing the same speed (71 in a 55… whoops) within a two-week period. He, of course, pulled my license, and shortly after I got it back my first GM vehicle (a Grand Am that I just HAD to have) totaled itself out via a condition I refer to as a ‘hole in a hose’ on the way home from Sioux City one night.

Then came the Malibu, and a car payment. Considering the car was on loan from the bank, you would hope I’d be more conscious of how I drove it. Nope. I took it prom dress shopping on a day that school was canceled due to snow (stop judging) and I was T-boned in an intersection after making an illegal left turn (seriously, you need to stop judging). Because I was on probation from losing my license for speeding… it was pulled immediately, and so were my keys.

By then I was a month away from turning 17, and 6 months away from college. My family and I decided the best thing to do was to put off getting a car (that is me being nice. I was PISSED I had to go to college without a car). So, I waited patiently through a full year in college before begging to go car shopping.

That’s when the Lady in Red came into my life.



At around $2500, she was a steal. I ran her into the ground, but she got me back a few times. That bitch broke down during my first two weeks as an intern in Phoenix on I-10 during morning rush. She stopped in the middle of cruising a square in Vermillion and my friends had to get out and push her out of an intersection. Most recently, she started shaking at intersections and when I’d push on the gas it would sound like I was competing in a drag race. And this Monday, as I was driving to a car dealership to look for ideas, she overheated.

It was time to send the Cavi to the island of misfit cars.

Let me tell you, I never knew how talented I was at bargaining before shopping for a car on my own. Without giving away too many details, I worked that dealer down from a price sticker of 18k to a loan for 11.



That’s with a trade-in, of course. Believe it or not, I got $1,000 out of that rust-bucket… and an offer to go run it into buildings around town with the dealers after hours. I politely declined.

So here’s to you, Chevy-4-Door… I’ll never be able to replace the memories I have driving you… but I can’t say I’ll miss you.

Feast or Famine

It's been a slow news week.

Monday I had my story by 7:30 am and didn't have anything else until Tuesday at 2:30. L had a story Monday but nothing Tuesday until 4:00 when someone left a suspicious package near an apartment complex.

What was in the package, you ask? Lotion, perfume, and confetti. I'm not kidding.

Wednesday I had a story-- L turned what would have been a vo/sot into a mini pac. Today, we both had tangible stories, but no breaking news.

Around here, it's feast or famine.

The same can be said about my apartment.

As many of you know, my best friend is visiting for the summer, and I am so excited for her to be here!



Kayla and I grew up together; we've been friends since literally before preschool. Our teachers used to mix up our papers (her 'y' looked like an 'r' and vice versa). I can tell her anything (and I've told her everything) and we have a freaking blast together. But one of the best things about our relationship is that she complements me... makes up for the talents I lack.

I'm talking about cooking.

Anyone who knows me well knows that I am not domestic. When Kayla and her family got to my apartment, the fridge was filled only with an open wine bottle, a bottle of vodka, beer (woah... that list looks bad...) and Chinese takeout (and that didn't help the list...). Since she's moved in, the fridge is full of actual ingredients to make food.

I don't know how to use them, but they're in there. That's a start.

I've been a bad 'friend' lately

There are people you just have to ‘hide’ from your newsfeed on Facebook.

You know the kind.

They update their status every five minutes. They post pictures of their dogs every morning. They overuse the Like button. Don’t act like you’ve never deleted a friend because of these annoying habits.

Well, folks, if you haven’t noticed already, I’ve become one of those people over the past two days.

I was blessed to live in the beautiful Black Hills for nearly two years. The scenery there consistently took my breath away… and I know I’m going to catch a lot of slack for what I’m about to type, but here it goes: The Black Hills have nothing on Naples Beaches.




I’ve spent the past two days ‘working’ on the sugar-sand, covering the effort to let people across the country know that there is no oil here- just crystal clear blue water. Yesterday I profiled a business that has had cancellations because people don’t know enough about Florida’s geography to know we’re not impacted by the spill (see that here) and today I covered a new advertising campaign the state is rolling out to combat those cancellations (watch me sweat on the beach here).



It’s been a tough few days at the office, let me tell you.



Every time I look at the Gulf, I can’t believe my life. Not only do I get paid to write stories, but I am in one of the most beautiful places in the western hemisphere. Even when it gets so hot in my blazer I want to jump in with my clothes on, it’s still so breathtaking I can’t believe they don’t charge admission. And every time that hits me, I use Facebook (and if we’re being honest, Twitter) as my brag board to let everyone know in snowy South Dakota how awesome my life is.

And now, I’m using my blog. Which you most likely got to through my Facebook.

I’m breaking all sorts of cyber-etiquette here.



Please don’t remove me as a friend…