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…

dirty words

Warning: This blog post may make some people uncomfortable.

In other words—Mom, you should stop reading right now. I’m serious. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

This post is about masturbating.

(Let that simmer for a minute)

First of all, get your mind out of the gutter!! Not the act of masturbating. The word masturbating. Though I can feel my blog getting more popular with every inappropriate Google search…

Apparently we have a problem in Southwest Florida with men pleasuring themselves in public. I wish I were kidding. In the past two weeks, we’ve covered a man in East Naples jerking off in his yard with kids nearby (meet the neighbor of the year here), a man in Lehigh Acres accused of doing the same thing (an underage victim detailed it for us), and today, I was on pervert patrol for a 19-year-old accused of rubbing one out while trying to lure young girls over to him. The kicker? He was hiding in the woods next to a high school.

This story had the potential to be really good or really lame. We needed great sound from people living in the area; people upset that their kids were walking to school near this creep while he was… doing that. I would’ve been happy with a pissed off parent, or at least a shocked neighbor. Instead, we got something way, way better.

We happened to run into the 16-year-old victim while she was walking home from school. Holy score, Batman.

She told us everything. I mean everything. In medical-term detail. This girl had no reservations about saying ‘masturbating’ on TV. So if she didn’t worry about it, I shouldn’t either. Right?

Well, I worried. Our live shot was outside of a high school, with annoying teenagers heckling me nearby. All I needed was one of them to hear me say the word and prompt a lewd demonstration behind me.

Luckily, that didn’t happen. Well, not on air, anyway. The hit wasn’t my best, but decent considering I was saying dirty words on TV.

Watch me say 'masturbating' here.

knock, knock

Sometimes this job is really hard.

It has nothing to do with deadlines, heavy equipment, or (in this state) heat. Well, okay; sometimes it does- but reporters are often put to a task that makes hauling 40 lbs worth of cameras, cords and tripods through 90 degree heat with four minutes til slot seem like cakewalk.

We knock on the doors of the mourning.

We call them victim’s families, next of kin- whatever it takes to sugarcoat the fact that they are about to bury someone they love. It’s the absolute worst part of the job. My palms sweat, my stomach turns, I feel like I’m going to pass out. I am not scared of much, but I am terrified in the moments walking up the sidewalk and waiting for the knob to turn.

It doesn’t get easier with time.

Today, I met a man whose whole life has turned upside down in the past 48 hours. He was having a weekend cookout with friends and family while his kids played in the yard. His toddler ran too quickly toward the rest of the group and suddenly, he was underwater in the community lake.

This man’s two-year-old is now a statistic. More toddlers die of drowning in Florida than any other state in the nation. Since going on the air here less than three weeks ago, I’ve covered two toddler drowning stories. It happens too often.

But to a father, a son will never be a statistic. I usually keep it together pretty well at work; I have never felt so heartbroken during an interview than I did with this man. He didn’t need to go on camera and talk to us. He owed us nothing. He simply didn’t want what happened to his family to happen to any other family, and that gave him the strength to get the words out. I can tell he is a great father, no matter what people say about these circumstances.

This afternoon, R and I were put in a pinch. We had a live hit at 4, but the satellite truck didn’t show up at the lake until 3:40. I hadn’t gone through my interview yet to log the sound I needed to send back to the station- I hadn’t even thought about a script for my 5 o’clock package. For the first time in a long time, I worried about missing slot. I felt like puking.

Somehow, it all got finished, and I managed to catch my breath long enough to get out my live intros and tags in both the 4 and 5. When we finally tore down to head back to the office, I slumped in the passenger seat and for a split second thought about how exhausting my day was.

That’s when I realized—compared to the man in this video, my day was a walk in the park. All I had to do was tell his story; he had to live it.

I hope knocking on those doors never gets easier.

half of my heart

I’ve been dodging text messages and screening phone calls all weekend. Sorry, friends. I’m alive and well; no toaster in the bathtub. Still making inappropriate jokes. Ob la di, ob la da.

I suppose it’s time to address the giant pink elephant in my life. While it’s really impersonal to do this via blog post, I don’t have the strength or patience to keep explaining it over and over. From now on, I’ll just give this url out when people want to know what happened to the relationship so many had so much faith in.

I’ve spent the last few days trying to figure out how to live my life as a ‘me’ and not a ‘we’. For the first time since my last year of college, I am single.

What a strange world we live in that one of the first things we did after breaking up was hide our relationship status on Facebook in hopes of people not finding out through a social networking site. Apparently, our efforts were no match for the live feed, and some people still noticed the change while creeping Thursday morning. To that, I am embarrassed and sorry—we were trying to keep it quiet so others wouldn’t be hurt.

I should mention that this is being written with Scott’s permission. He and I still talk several times per day, and while it’s cliché to say this breakup was a mutual decision, it truly was. We decided together that the best thing for both of us is to call it quits.

Being honest with ourselves, we both know this has been a long time coming. It’s easy to get comfortable in a relationship, and if I were still in SD, I am sure we’d still be together. We probably would have been for a long, long time. It took breaking out of our comfort zone of seeing each other every weekend to realize that we were really just delaying the inevitable. We want different things out of life. We both agree that, eventually, we would have had the same outcome in the same state as we are living in different time zones.

Scott is my best friend; he’s half of my heart. He helped me grow up from an irresponsible college student to a career-minded adult. It is his love and encouragement that made this move possible. Throughout our entire relationship, he supported whatever I wanted to do, even if he didn’t like it.

We’re lucky in that this wasn’t done out of anger; we didn’t fall out of love with each other. We’re not bitching to our friends about the other. The only time I get really, really sad is when I think about him being sad. I only want what’s best for him, and he wants the same for me.



I’d be lying if I said this breakup wasn’t one of the hardest things I’ve ever been through. Luckily, my best friend happens to be going through the exact same pain. Like everything else we’ve been faced with, Scott and I are getting through this together.

Thanks to everyone for your amazing support. That’s all I have to say on the subject.

Friendly Competition

I’ve been watching a lot of Friends on DVD recently.

Ok, let’s be honest—I’ve gotten through the entire series and am now back on Season 6 because it’s my favorite. Chandler and Monica have just gotten engaged and Rachel kisses Ross, inadvertently stealing her best friend’s thunder…

I’m getting sidetracked.

Saturday, I’ll finally get cable and I won’t have to watch TVD anymore. Oh, the irony of a news reporter not being able to watch the news. What’s worse is I have, thanks to my brother, a ginormous flat screen begging me to watch the latest Bravo shows just sitting there staring at me. It’s cruel and unusual punishment to someone who loves the invention of TV as much as I do.

Anyway, Saturday will come and I will finally be able to get the Friends theme song out of my head. You know the tune…

“Your mother warned you there’d be days like these.”

Well, Mom, today was one of those days.

I woke up to my personal life in flames and a zit above my right eyebrow (the one not protected by my breakage bangs from the view of those watching me in their TV sets). I arrived at work to find fresh gang graffiti in the alley (and other places that I’m not at liberty to disclose) and a whole mess of nothing to report on. I was already set up to go live from a school meeting, but that didn’t start until 4- plenty of time to package whatever came along in the meantime.

First, a fire. In a dumpster. A dumpster fire. You know, the same things homeless people set to keep warm in other parts of the country. We arrived to see firemen scratching their heads, unable to find said fire.

Back to the office.

Next, a construction accident; three people had fallen from scaffolding about 15 feet above ground. At one point, Med-flight was requested. It might make me sound morbid, but this was enough to get excited about because at least it was visual (the three who fell are all okay, by the way). When we got to the scene, though, we weren’t allowed in. Naples has far too many gated communities with crabby rent-a-cops running the show.

Back to the office.

At this point, it’s 1:30, and I’ve been given a freebie for the day to preview the school meeting to wrap my live around. It’s a quick write, and I’m able to follow up on a few reports from the Sheriff’s office, etc. Things are starting to feel a little bit better, and then it’s off to the live shot.

This is when my day started to get really interesting.

My car’s air conditioning is doing this really awesome thing it did the summer I lived in Phoenix—not working properly. It goes back and forth from sort-of cold air to scorching hot air every ten or fifteen seconds. By the time I get to my live shot, I am sweating to the point it’s uncomfortable. Any makeup I had applied prior was now running down my face. In a rush to get out of the greenhoused-Cavalier, I forget the keys are in the ignition and lock it up. To make matters worse, my phone’s battery is now flashing at me as a warning that it’s about to turn off. Mind you, this is all happening as my deadline ticks closer with every second on the clock; soon I’ll have to go on TV sweaty and without any way to communicate with my producer.

I’ve always found it beneficial to befriend the competition when you’re out on stories. It’s how L and I became tight enough for her to help me land this job. Plus, you never know when you’ll need a spare tape, a spray of Aqua-net, or a friendly dial to AAA.

I owe the other affiliate’s reporter a night’s worth of drinks for getting someone to open my car gratis and shedding some sunshine on my otherwise worthless Thursday.

Thank God for friendly competition—there for you when the rain starts to pour… or sweat, in this case.

Don't bite the hand that makes you look good on TV

Ok, so it's not as catchy as the traditional saying, but you get where I'm going.

For the past two years, I've worked solo. And I mean completely alone, in a bureau a time zone away from the main office. I shot everything myself, wrote my stories, edited them, and set up my own live shots. The business has several names for what I did-- one man band, vj, slave (just kidding). My friends and family have other names for it, but we won't get into that...

I've only been on the air for a week, and I can't imagine working solo again.

My friends in the business can vouch for the fact reporter/photographer teams are becoming few and far between. I would never say that OMB's can or cannot do what a two person team can-- it really depends what type of work ethic the OMB has and what his/her strengths are. Still, I feel damn lucky to be a part of a team.

The two photographers I work with, R and C, are very different.

I met R first. He is a father of two, and a no-nonsense father at that. I fear for the boys who try to take out his daughter someday. He's also a no-nonsense photographer; quick to get in, quick to get out... ideal for tight deadlines. He has lived in Naples for more than a decade, and he is an invaluable resource for me as a new reporter. He knows every street name and every gated community we can't get into. We've spent two long days together in the live truck, and neither time did I worry about how things would turn out. He introduced me to sweet tea, and in his words, "life will never be the same."

C is the polar opposite of R in every way but his talent (in that, they're matched). He's lived in Japan, Portugal, and inner-city Detroit. He speaks a number of languages and plays in a bluegrass band (and heavy metal, I'm told). As a new reporter in the market, he's the type of photographer that will help make my face recognizable to viewers. He's all over two-shots and creative with stand-ups and teases. If the street we're on is empty, he'll take his time getting to stories; if traffic is at a peak, he'll weave in and out of cars and trucks so close it will have me grabbing for what we in the Midwest so eloquently call an 'oh shit' handle.

I like them both for different reasons.

Bottom line, if you're a reporter lucky enough to have someone carrying the camera for you, you are no more than six feet away from them from the moment you get into the live truck/office to the moment you tear down/lock up. You'd better hope you like them, but more importantly you'd better hope they like you. Some camera angles are simply not flattering.

"They both like you," my co-reporter L informed me tonight over drinks.

In like Flynn.

I live here?!

Have you ever had one of those 'pinch yourself' moments?

You know the kind.

You're going along, living your life, and all of a sudden, BAM (or pinch, in this case); you're met with an opportunity that seems too good to be true. Too surreal to be, well, real.

In my 23 years, I've had a number of 'pinch yourself' moments. A few came along in college-- when I got my bid from A Phi (my friends kept me in school)... the day I got accepted to my Phoenix internship (I freaking love it there). More came when I landed my first job-- setting up live shots waist-deep in snow (no, that’s not sarcasm)… filling-in on the desk (even when it meant a 5 hour drive before working on 3 hours of sleep). I pinched myself for hours the day I met Katie Couric, and the same was true the day I jumped out of a plane (once I regained feeling in my legs).

Well, I’ve been pinching myself for more than a week straight.

Naples is... gorgeous.

There is not a palm tree out of place. The beaches have the whitest sand and the clearest blue water. If the oil makes it here, there will be an uprising. People take their scenery seriously. I believe there is only one billboard in the whole town; the sign ordinance doesn't allow businesses to post anything above a certain height, so no golden arches obstruct the view of the fluffy white clouds. Everything is landscaped, from the obvious golf courses to the understated overpasses.

Everyone is happy here. Granted, most people who live here are 65+, driving a Bentley, and spending their days at the beach. That aside, young people do exist in Naples. While I don't fit in the same tax bracket as most of them, the few I've met seem nice enough.

Oh, in addition to gawking at my beautiful new backyard, I am settling in to my apartment and I am LOVING work. Those topics... for a future blog post. Until then, you can look for me on our website by clicking here or follow me on Twitter here.

Miss you all- and as far as I'm concerned, if you're reading this, you and I are close enough for you to come visit. Make it happen.

-K