SF Emmy Awards 2013

So. I didn't take home any golden ladies this year. This was not my first time leaving empty handed, and odds are, it may not be my last. But, and this is such a big but that I can not lie, you other brothers can't deny, that when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist...

Wait, where was I? Oh yes, BUT, despite losing to "Bra Phone and Fake Alzheimers" in the Specialty Assignment category (which makes this the third time I've been nominated in that category and zero wins) and "Breezy's Choice" (Serious Feature category), I am really very Zen about this. No one is more shocked by my mild-mannered acceptance of this than me. Or I, if you want to be grammatically correct. Because normally, when I don't win, I'm like this.

I attribute my lack of hulking out to several factors. First, I think this was the first year I was part of a huge contingent from my station. 27 nominations in total. All the NBC Bay Area folks chillaxed and dolled up and in such high spirits--Garvin already knew he was a single nominee and recipient which means he knew he was going to take home a statue weeks ago. I've never experienced that sure thing feeling at an awards ceremony. I'm guessing it's incred.

And we had great representation across the station--from the Investigative Unit to the morning news team, to our graphic designers to our friends at Telemundo. 

Then there were the two pregnant wives who just bring all kinds of positive juju--not to mention double juju for the first time mom-to-be of twins.

Then there was the hawt factor of being in a little sequined number with a handsome tuxedoed piece of man candy on my arm. We so YouTubed our outfits with searches for "How to Make a Sock Bun" and "How to Tie a Bowtie." The Good Doctor's outfit was literally held together with Scotch tape. Mens Wearhouse sent his tuxedo shirt to Nevada by mistake. The one he special ordered because there are no tuxedo shirts on the shelves for people with his measurements. He had to MacGyver his existing white shirt into a tux shirt by using an X-acto knife to make slits for the studs. (Insert joke here.) He made a couple cuts that were a little too long, which he then sewed together. Those hours spent suturing in the OR paid off. But for good measure, we put 7 pieces of tape inside his shirt to hold the studs in place.

That is so metaphoric for most things we do in life. Looking so put together but underneath--it's all thin thread and clear tape.

But I think what made it really easy to not be a Bitter Betty was the sheer joy emanating from my friends, colleagues, and teammates who worked so hard on the stories that won, and we also had quite a few first time Emmy recipients who were so, so deserving.

Like producer Liza--double fisting the Emmys! Frankly, I just want her arms. #buffmuch

And photog Mark V who has been nominated before but never won--he killed it with THREE in one night.

Super team Liz, Tony and Felipe--love 'em. Took home two each. 

Seeing friends who've moved on to other stations was also a fun part of the night. Emmy's doppelganger Michelle (by some freaky coincidence, they looked identical with bangs, and now they're both growing their bangs out.) This, by the way, is hands down the best pic The Good Doctor has ever taken of me. I'm sure it was purely accidental, as I have attempted to coach his picture taking for 18 years with few tangible results.

Maybe I'm getting older too, and I can appreciate the night as a celebration of the work done by all the journalists in this market whom I respect and admire. If Mike Sugerman can take it in the chin, then I can too. (He's won best reporter and best writer in the past--HUGE categories.)

Last year was a short year for me returning from Odessa-leave, and a transitional one--adjusting from special projects reporter to investigative reporter. So I'm not going to Tiger Mom myself about not winning. Plus the people who did win in my categories seemed really ecstatic and not all Wayne Freedman, this is my 49th, 50th, and 51st Emmy award. No offense Wayne. I mean, you retired because your house is probably starting to look pretty Trumptackular with all that gold everywhere. 

Raj said it well in his short speech--"It's a great time to be at NBC Bay Area" and I think everyone felt that way Saturday night. Even though it would have been awesome to take home a statue, hopefully I'll have another crack next year. Meanwhile, I'm happily celebrating the wins of my friends. #Nguyeningvicariously

 

Art-Off

Wife with good taste + husband who says "no" or "maybe" to everything + two small rug rats = house that is painfully undecorated.

The formula above is what led us to a late evening run to Michael's to buy canvasses, 15 tubes of acrylic paints, gel mix ins, and paintbrushes. Inspired by a couple of our neighbors who bought giant canvasses and tried their hand at abstract oil paintings, and given our competitive natures, The Good Doctor and I decided to face off in an art-off.

He picked his design, I picked mine, and we retreated to the garage for many a late night listening to the comedy channels on I Heart Radio and painting our hearts out.

At first it was supposed to be some big surprise and he was not going to show me his design, but after seeing my painting technique, he decided to let me in on the big secret. Cityscape. 

Me: Hmm. Sounds...ugly. 

Him: No. It will be cool.

Me: I don't really like cityscapes anymore. I used to love them but I'm over them now.

Him: Whatever. You suck.

Me: I'm just saying...

Fast forward a couple weeks.

His painting looks...ugly.

Me: Uh.

Me: Huh. 

Me: Mmm. 

Him: Dude, leave me alone! You have no idea what I'm doing.

Me: YOU have no idea what you're doing.

And this continues, mercilessly, throughout 94% of what he's painting. I sigh, I question, I shake my head, I look at his painting sideways, upside down, with one eye closed. I am very McKayla Maroney about the whole thing. 

I am brutally honest. I don't like the colors. I don't see how it's going to fit into the house. I don't understand why you're using so much paint. That part kind of looked good, until you just did that irreversible thing. Why did you do that? I am the painting devil. He asks for feedback and I have nothing positive to say. I even tell him, "Maybe we can Craigslist it." So mean. Harrrrible. 

Then suddenly, toward the end, it all comes together.

His painting looks incredible. Way better than mine. Like this art-off gold medal that I had in my pocket the whole time suddenly got ripped away like Game 1 of the Western Conference semifinals when the Warriors (me) were so ahead of the Spurs (him) and then at the end, everyone was all, "WTF just happened?" 

I become the biggest fan of his painting. After breaking him down to Chinatown, I have reversed my opinion 180 degrees. The painting has texture, the colors pop, it looks totally amazing from far away, it all comes together and looks like a professionally done piece. I am PROUD of him. I am convincing him (after weeks of relentless hatin') that his painting is INCRED. He looks at me like I have just kicked 101 puppies in the stomach and he's the next in line.

I'm like, "Seriously, babe, you know how much I hated your painting the whole time, right? Well now I am eating my words. It looks amazzzzzing."

He's still shaking his head like, "I know you. You're a puppy stomach kicker."

I try to tell him that should make me even more credible. When haters turn into lovers! It means I really do think his painting is fantastic. 

He's like, "Puppy kicker."

Then he shows me this Tanja Bell YouTube video of how to paint with a palette knife, which is what he modeled his painting after.

I'm like, "Dude, you did this. Exactly!"

For a virgin painter, I'm astounded. I insist that he hang the painting immediately on our dining room wall. He still thinks I'm going to kick his puppy gut.

But this now proudly hangs in the room where we eat. It is really special and I am publicly declaring my wrongness. I was so wrong. Bad bad me. I was hating so hard on him and his painting turned out better than mine. This is what it's like being married to me.

 

Meanwhile, my entry into the art-off. Meh. I mean, it's got this cool pumice texture but I don't know. It looks really homemade. And as you can see, it doesn't have a permanent home; my pieces are just resting on the headboard at the moment. Of course, The Good Doctor, very supportive of my efforts and nice during my artcapade.

And lastly, Emmy's painting, inspired by her buddy Jack. The Good Doctor did a great job taping off the canvas with her name, and we just let her go crazy with the paint colors.

 

There you have it, I accept defeat in the art-off. Much to my own astonishment.

Footnotes so you know the scale of these items: The paintings we did are 48" x 72." Emerson's is 18"x24."

Workplace Sins

My dad loves to tell me via text "Record 20/20" or "Turn on Travel Channel... now !" Usually I get the text when I'm nowhere near the TV or covered in acrylic paint listening to a comedy podcast while attempting to paint a masterpiece for my walls because I'm too cheap to buy real art and also because I challenged my husband to an art-off. Like a dance-off but way less fun to watch.

In any case, I actually listened to my dad a couple weeks ago to DVR a 20/20 on "Work Wars: How to Win Them, How to Wage Them." 

One of the segments was about workplace sins, based on an interview with the author of "Corporate Confidential," who's a former HR professional. For some reason, that segment was really interesting to me. 

Do you bring baked goods to work? SIN! Unless you work at Sprinkles.

Are you too popular at work? SIN!

Is your cube super decorated? SIN!

Multitasking? SIN!

Did this article resonate with you in any way? What should we not be doing at work?  

Broke Down

I don't have a ton of phobias but one of them is car trouble. I have only owned two cars in my life, a Honda Civic and a Toyota Prius. Both purchased new and both chosen because of their reputations for reliability, and likelihood of not having to be repaired. I'm nothing if not pragmatic when it comes to cars. No need for fancy bells and whistles. I just want a car that will work, every day, day after day, without having to "go into the shop." That's why I pretty much avoid any fancy cars not made in Asia. Too many horror stories. And by horror story, I mean anyone who has ever said, "I had to take my car to a mechanic" for anything other than an oil change or routine maintenance, I politely ask what type of car it is, and then mentally note it as a car I will never purchase for fear I too may have to take that car to the mechanic one day.

If they made cars that guaranteed you'd never get a flat tire, I'd buy one of those. I told you, it's not logic. It's a phobia. 

Knowing what you now know, you can just imagine the dread that filled me last week when my car suddenly slowed from 65, yes, I was actually driving the speed limit, to 50. All the lights on the instrument panel lit up like the Bay Bridge. The exclamation point light, the VSC light, the check oil light, the wiggly lines light. I put on my emergency lights and just willed my car to keep driving the next 1.5 miles to my exit. 

We made it. Then when my car slowed on the off ramp, it decided to shut off completely. I have never been in a car that would not go. I religiously fill my gas tank. I get regular oil changes. I check the air pressure in my tires. But now my car is stopped, and after turning it off and on twice, it is still dead. On the off ramp of a busy freeway during morning rush hour. First one car inches by me then a second, then a third, then there's this dude at my window. His tow truck is behind my car. 

At this point I'm like, what? What good fortune. A dude with a tow truck behind me at this exact moment?

Turns out he's with 511 Freeway Aid, a service that "links...MTC, CHP, and Caltrans - with a program to rapidly deploy appropriate roadside services and get motorists moving again as soon as possible."

He can tow me, for free, to the nearest safe place. At that point, I try to start my car one last time, and lo and behold, it starts. The lights are still on but my Pri Pri can actually go. Incred. So I don't need his services after all.

Long story short, I got to work and had my car towed to the dealer. They 're-coded' a couple of things in the system, drove it 5 miles and said it's fine. Unless it stops again. Then it's a fuel delivery problem and it's going to be extremely expensive.

Great.

But in the meantime, I had to spread the gospel about the 511 Freeway Aid. It's free but technically I pay for this service, as does every other California taxpayer. You just call 511 and say "freeway aid" and someone comes and changes your tire, jumps your battery or tows you off the highway. They will even give you a free gallon of gas. 

It only works free during peak commute hours, and it's not for an emergency--you should call 911 if there's an accident or you're in imminent danger in the middle of the freeway.

Finally, something about California driving we can appreciate.

Investigating Really Cuts into Me Time

So here's the deal, people. Haven't been posting as frequently as I used to and I think I've figured out why. Because I'm an investigative reporter now. I can ALWAYS be doing something. Researching, calling tipsters, arguing with a producer who hates babies and dogs, thinking deep thoughts, talking to my boss, looking for new ideas, fighting with public information officers, surveilling, multi-tasking, returning emails, strategizing, popping out of parking lots and panting my way through an unscheduled interview. The list of boxes to check off my list is endless.

As The Good Doctor likes to say, "Your job sucks now." He's only joking but also dead serious. #firstworldprivilegedpersonproblem #i'mtotallynotcomplaining

I no longer have mental downtime built into my day. When I was a general assignment reporter, or gen ass as I like to say, I always had to give my photog a script at least an hour before air, so he/she would have enough time to cut it. That hour was Me time. Time to chillax (that was before Twitter and FB and writing my own web articles etc.) It was prime bloggity time. But now, see above.

Also, I've lost my edge. I used to be able to kvetch about random stuff gen assers encounter because each day is a new day and you don't have to cultivate longstanding relationships with the man on the street you interviewed. In short, I could totally make fun of people. 

It's harder to do that when you're on a billboard with a serious face and your stories hold the powerful accountable and you're supposed to show you deserve to be on the nation's largest local investigative unit. It's spelled P-R-E-S-S-U-R-E. I would characterize it as a readjustment period. 

I am finding my place. I think I can still provide some interesting posts with the correctly curated topics and issues without blowing up my cloaks and daggers investigations. It's actually pretty cathartic. Plus I have more free time now that I'm not feeding another person from my bosoms.