Case of the Missing Highlighter

On Friday, I told you guys about my stolen chair experience in which I borrowed my neighbor's chair [that is still at my desk today unfortunately] that I thought was like mine. I learned the hard way that it isn't.

Anyway, Christina told me "I'd put out a report for a missing chair. Be prepared for a potential ransom note." That prompted a memory I'd forgotten I had, one from when I first started working at the station.

I'm not really sure what title this lady holds. In my mind she's the office-supply-lady-who's-anal-about-the-copy-machine secretary.

There is a table of office supplies out in the copy machine area. You would think that they are there for general office use. You would be wrong. They are there to tease those of us working in the newsroom.

If one item on that table is not physically touching the table for more than five minutes, she knows. She comes swooping out of her office, in much the same fashion as she does when someone dares to put more paper in the copy machine, and stares down the person using said item until they feel so self-conscious and anxious that they quickly drop the item back to the table before they're finished using it and beat a hasty retreat.

You think I'm kidding.

A few months after I started working here, I moved to the day shift. You know, the typical 9 to 5 shift that yuppies work. I hadn't been working that shift for more than a week when the lay of the land, a.k.a. office supply table, became very apparent.

Someone needed a highlighter. There just so happens to be a pink highlighter on that table. They trustingly use the highlighter and mistakenly gather it into their group of papers, pens, etc. and deposit it unknowingly on their desk.

By the end of the day there was an inter-office memo, a note taped to the newsroom door and an email circulating demanding the return of said highlighter.

Want to know who had it?

Our news director.

Funny Friday

When I got to work last night, my chair was gone.

I checked all the edit bays, made sure all the other desks only had one chair and looked every other place I could think to look. No chair.

So I decided to steal my neighbor's chair. It's not like he's here overnight anyway, right? And his chair is identical to mine.

Or so I thought.

Around 12:30 I decided it was break time, which means it's time to roll another chair over, kick my feet up, snuggle under my blanket and catch a wink of sleep. So I stole my other neighbor's chair and proceeded to take my mandatory 30 minute break.

I always set my phone's alarm just in case I actually fall asleep really deeply. So it goes off at 1:00. I kick the other chair back across the newsroom, spin my stolen chair back around to face my desk and proceed to rearrange myself into a comfortable sitting position.

For me, that means calling on my one-sixteenth Cherokee bloodlines and pulling my legs up under me to sit like an Indian and wrap my blanket completely around my lower extremities. During this process I nearly always end up pushing myself backwards and up by use of the armrests to maneuver my legs [cause they're so long, you see].

In my chair, this would have worked out perfectly. In my neighbor's chair that is not identical to mine, it is not. In my chair, the back doesn't lean back if you do; it stays upright. In my neighbor's chair, the back leans all the way back.

I did not know this.

It flipped completely over.

I rolled out of it backwards.

Into the collection of empty water cooler jugs that are gathering behind my desk.

I want my chair back.

Happy Friday.

Oh Happy Day!

No creepy phone call today!

But I must admit that I was pretty apprehensive about coming to work. By the time I'd driven across town, I'd pretty near worked myself into a state of anxiety. My heart was beating erratically, I was scanning my surroundings suspiciously. It was a whole new experience for me. Now I think I'll go buy some mace!

And now for some more happy news.

Today is mine and the boyfriend's seven month anniversary! I don't know what we'll do to celebrate. As much as two people on a limited income can do, I suppose. Which means we'll probably go to dinner and watch t.v. together. Ha.

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..

...

..

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Oh, and lucky me had my employee number pulled for a random drug test. So when I get off work I have the pleasure of driving to the drug place, sitting outside until it opens, and then peeing in a cup.

Once, Twice, Stop Calling Me, Stalker!

I think I have a 'phone-stalker' at my work.

I've gotten two creepy, weird phone calls this week. At the same time. From the same person.

The first one was Monday night. It went a little something like this:

Me: *answers phone* News 4.

Creepy: *heavy breathing*

Me: *assumes he didn't hear me the first time* Hello? WTVY, News 4. Can I help you?

Creepy: Who is this?

Me: *thinking I'm definitely not telling him my name* This is WTVY News 4, the television station.

Creepy: Oh. What time does the news come on?

Me: The nightly shows are already over. The morning show starts at 5.

Creepy: Who is this?

Me: *makes stupid decision* This is Ashton. Can I help you?

Creepy: Will you do me a favor?

Me: *silence*

Creepy: Will you close your eyes?

Me: No.

Creepy: C'mon. Close your eyes for me.

Me: No. I have to get back to work. Thanks for calling. *hangs up on him*

I was pretty creeped out for the rest of the night, halfway suspecting one of my coworkers to walk around the corner and try to scare me. But they didn't.

Which makes it worse. Have I ever mentioned I work in a dark, old hotel building all alone for the whole night?

Well, I do. And Monday night all the lights in the lobby were turned off, which meant everything but where I am was dark. I guess they're on some energy-saving kick.

I got another call tonight.

Me: *answers phone* News 4.

Creepy: I want to talk to [insert anchor name].

Me: She's already gone home for the evening. She'll be back tomorrow afternoon.

Creepy: Oh. *pause* What's the weather for tomorrow?

Me: If you have the internet, go to wtvy.com and the forecasts are on there.

Creepy: I want to know about the Peanut Festival.

Me: *trying to be professional* What do you want to know, when it is?

Creepy: Yeah.

Me: It's the last week of October.

Creepy: Are you going?

Me: *thinking there's no way in Hell I'm telling him I'll be at the WTVY tent* I'm sure I'll go one day.

Creepy: Will you go with me and ride the rides with me?

Me: *slightly panicked* I don't know you so...

Creepy: We'll be best friends.

Me: I already have a best friend and don't need a new one. I have to go. Thank you. Have a nice night. *hangs up on him again*

This time I was really freaked out. So much so that I went downstairs [luckily the lights were still mostly on] and sat with the nightly meteorologist for about 30 minutes.

It's been documented with the station. They've even had the engineers make sure all the doors are totally secure. But I'm still pretty freaked out, to be honest.

I hope that whoever it is that's doing it is getting a kick out of my paranoia. They just better hope that they don't actually figure out who I am and try to approach me at the Peanut Festival. That will not end well for him. To quote my boyfriend: if this guy shows up and wants to be best friends...he can be best friends with the first 3 knuckles of my fist.

Am I Saying it Right?

In case it hasn't been as obvious as I imagine it to be, I am from the South. Born and raised a Georgia peach, transplanted to Alabama. And yes, there is a difference.

But one thing most southerners have in common, with the exception of those living in south Florida, is a profinity for drawing out our words. That's right. I'm talking about that southern drawl.

Down here we almost have our own language. We say things like y'all, fix'n to, and yes ma'am and no ma'am. We also have a tendency to change the pronunciation of some very common words. For example, in Egypt there is a city named Cairo, pronounced 'k-eye-row'. In Georgia there is also a Cairo, but it's pronounced 'kay-row.'

With that being said, I should know that it's ultimately inevitable that I've been pronouncing all words correctly, right? Maybe. But there is one word that I've apparently been saying wrong all my life.

Nevada. Pronounced 'ne-vadd-uh'.

All my life, however, I've been saying 'Ne-VAH-duh.' Being politically incorrect and inadvertently joining the mass of people pissing off Nevadans.

At least I'm not alone though.

This whole debate has made its way to the Nevada legislature, where a Las Vegas assemblyman has written a resolution that would encourage residents to be more accepting of the traditional Spanish pronunciation - 'Ne-vah-duh.'

It wouldn't change the pronunciation from one to the other, just make both acceptable. Not a bad compromise, if you ask me. But Nevadans won't hear of it. Some are even calling for the assemblyman to be removed from office.

I guess this isn't just a case of potato-potato.

A Lesson in Irony

So do you guys remember when I decided to climb the corporate ladder and transition from the morning show producer to the evening producer?

[Do you guys even know what it is that I do for my job?]

Well that transition was supposed to start this week. 'Supposed' being the key word in that sentence.

Starting tomorrow [Monday night/Tuesday morning], I was supposed to start training my replacement on the morning show. You know, teaching her the show's format, how to choose stories, how to write scripts, etc. All the stuff I do on a day-to-day basis. Pretty basic stuff, really.

Although I say it's basic stuff - and it is - I'm actually pretty nervous about training someone. I may not be a spring chicken when it comes to my job, but I'm still relatively new to this side of journalism. I'm not sure if I know how to train someone in the ways of television news. But I digress.

Getting back on topic...

New producer's training should be starting tomorrow, but it isn't. And the reason why is one of the most ironic things ever to happen in my life. I always see/hear/read about irony in the lives of other people but rarely have this literary genius pop up in my own. So of course I had to share my lesson in irony with you guys!

When I first started working at the station, back when I was still just a temporary fill-in producer, I had to take an unwanted week-long vacation.

I'd only been working maybe three weeks when my appendix decided it wanted to make its presence known by swelling to near-bursting size. Luckily, it didn't rupture. If it had I would have been out much longer than a week. However, once your appendix is poisoned [for reasons still unknown to modern man] it has to come out.

New producer was supposed to have some sort of out-patient surgical procedure last Monday. As she was driving herself to the hospital, her surgeon's people called her and informed her that she would not be getting operated on that day because, wait for it...

He had been rushed to the emergency room for a ruptured appendix.

 

Behind the Scenes IV

Weather Phrase of the Day:

"air you can wear"

[in reference to humidity. oh southern summers, how we love you]

Insult of the Day:

"The more I teach you, the dumber I get, man."

[director to graphics op]

Out of Sight... Out of Mind

isolation: a lack of contact between persons, groups or whole societies

synonyms: see solitude

When you work the absurd hours that I work, isolation is all part of the game. You get used to not seeing or interacting with other people. You grow accustomed to your lack of social life. But there's one thing you don't ever embrace.

That feeling of 'out-of-sight, out-of-mind'.

Normally that's not something I have to deal with. My coworkers are good about sending me emails, leaving me notes on my desk/computer, calling or texting me, writing on my facebook wall and even staying a little late just to say hello once in awhile.

Anytime people bring goodies, a.k.a candy, to share with everyone, there's always some left for me either in my mailbox or on my desk. Even though I'm the red-headed stepchild of the newsroom, I'm not left out of things. Or at least I haven't ever felt left out.

Until recently.

We have a new general manager, and he's been trying to... how can I say this nicely? Win everyone over. Not that it's necessarily a bad thing. I just don't agree with his methods.

On two occasions, he's bought flowers for all the ladies. Wait, that's not accurate. He's bought flowers for all the ladies who work in the newsroom during the day.

That excludes me and the morning/noon weathergirl. And I guess my feelings shouldn't be hurt by his omission. I understand that I'm the one person who's easy to forget about at this station. Like I said earlier, out-of-sight and out-of-mind.

But it would be nice to feel appreciated now and again. Or maybe I should say that it'd be nice to be remembered. I may not be a part of the group, but I am part of the group.

I realize that this probably comes off sounding like a pity party, but let me assure you that it's anything but. Sure, it sucks that my highest-ranked boss seems to not know I exist, but this is more a statement against the whole act of someone trying to buy my or my coworkers' approval.

Respect is something that should be earned. Getting flowers and chocolates is nice, but the gifts you receive shouldn't be what you base your professional opinion of someone on. And the person in charge should be savvy enough to know that their actual performance will go much farther than material gifts.

And not including everyone in your gift-giving simply because you don't see them on a daily basis isn't professional.

Walk the Plank!

I don't hold much with political parties. Frankly, I think anyone who limits their political views to the restrictions of one party are limiting their ability as a citizen to make informed decisions. Therefore I refuse to declare myself an avid republican or democrat. Both parties have views that I agree with. Likewise, both have views I disagree with.

With that being said, I have found a political party that I might actually consider! The Pirate Party!

Yes, they are a legitimate political party, although they're not officially recognized in any U.S. state. They surfaced four years ago in Sweden as advocates of the information age. Basically, they're techies out to protect the ways of the internet.

Anyway, this unique party has showed up in Oregon. Jorden Leonard is running for some random office as a Pirate. Unfortunately he doesn't dress up like a pirate, thus taking away some of the grandeur I had imagined upon first reading the story. His campaign is focused on trademark, patent and copyright reform.

So yeah, it's not all that exciting. But if I declared myself a member of the Pirate Party I could totally justify dressing like this:

Isn't that hat awesome?

But if I were really to declare myself a Pirate raises an even more serious question. A question of epic proportions, if you will. If I were to become a pirate and start living the pirate lifestyle, would that make me a pastafarian?

Don't scoff. That is a legitimate question.

Pastafarians worship the flying spaghetti monster.

The belief is that the universe was created by an invisible and undetectable flying spaghetti monster after it drank heavily. His intoxication is what caused the Earth to be flawed. Their idea of Heaven has a beer volcano and strippers, while their idea of Hell is similar but the beer is stale and the strippers have STDs.

You're probably thinking right about now, what does this have to do with pirates? Well, I'll tell you.

Pastafarians believe pirates are absolute divine beings and the original Pastafarians. They believe the pirate image of being thieves and outcasts is misinformation spread by Christian theologians. Pastafarians believe pirates of old were peaceful explorers, full of goodwill and gave candy to children.

This is a legitimate religion, although it is often quite satirical. You can verify its existence for yourself by checking out the official site HERE. You can even send them hate mail!

My Tribute of Sorts to the King

Sunday marked the 33rd anniversary of the death of the King of Rock 'n' Roll, Mr. Elvis Presley.

Now, I don't normally celebrate things of that nature, but in Memphis, Tenn., there's a week-long celebration at Graceland. It's called, of all things, "Elvis Week" and it wrapped up yesterday with a concert.

I'm not a huge, die-hard Elvis fan. I enjoy his music and consider him nice to look at in his pre-fat days.

It's hard not to respect the man, though. I mean he revolutionized the musical world, not to mention those controversial below-the-belt moves of his! When he performed on the Late Show, the cameras were only allowed to film him from the waist up because his shaking, wiggly hips were so scandalous. Nowadays the gyrating pelvic thrusts Elvis became infamous for are tame in comparison to the dance moves you see in music videos or clubs.

And you can't forget his fame on the silver screen, although his acting skills were somewhat lacking. Elvis himself even called his acting skills poor. Most of his movies were silly and did nothing to hide the fact that he was chosen strictly for his looks and singing voice. They all seemed to have the same plot line and he always got the girl.

But despite my seemingly disparaging comments about the 31 films the rock 'n' roll king filmed in his acting career, there is one that I simply cannot resist. Every time it comes on TCM or AMC you can find me glued to the screen, hanging on his every word.

What movie is that, you ask? None other than 'Girl Happy'. You can see the original movie poster above. What makes this movie different from the rest? Not much really. It's still silly, but I love the sense of comaraderie it portrays between Rusty (Elvis) and his band. And it also helps that he tunnels into a jail just to talk to the girl he's in love with only to find that she's already been bailed out and he's now trapped because his buddies caved in his tunnel. So how does he escape? The rest of the girls dress him up all pretty like and he walks out with them, but not before locking the jailer in the cell!

So here's to you, Elvis Presley. You truly were and remain to this day the King of Rock 'N' Roll.

Without Passion Man is a Mere Latent Force and Possibility.

"The Kiss"

This picture was taken on August 14, 1945, the day the Japanese surrendered to Allied Forces, thereby ending World War II. This picture, known by most simply as "The Kiss", graced the cover of Life Magazine 65 years ago and since then has come to be regarded as a national symbol of celebration.

Every time I see this photo, I see not only celebration but also passion. A passion for life, a passion for victory, a passion for love. I see something that this world could use more of - passion outside of the bedroom.

People aren't passionate about things anymore. They don't pursue careers they're passionate about. They chase the jobs with the most dollar signs, vainly grasping for the happiness they want their money to buy. They restrict their passion to their bedrooms, attaching its meaning only to sex.

Young people nowadays don't have passion in their lives. They aren't passionate about life, love or the world. They put their faith in material things, believe that love and sex are synonymous, have jobs instead of careers. They lack the substance that makes life worth living.

Maybe they haven't found anything to be passionate about. Or maybe someone along the way told them their passion was stupid and would lead them nowhere in life. And maybe, just maybe, they'll look up one day and realize that life without passion really isn't life at all.

I'm passionate about my career, my family, my relationship, my life. I may not make the most money. I may not always get along with my family or my love. And I may not always be satisfied with life's outcomes, but I know that it's my passion to be who I am on my terms that keeps me going. It's that passion that makes life worth living. Have you found that passion?

Silver Linings Do Exist

Just when you're starting to think that everything in life is ugly, you look up and are reminded that beauty can be found even on the cloudiest of days.

Happy Friday. Here's to the end of one helluva week.

Wishlist

I know I said I wouldn't be back until next week, but I'm running this as my kicker and thought I'd share. It's called "The House of Dancing Water" and I would love to go see it.



Too bad there's no way I can afford a plane ticket to Macau, not to mention pay to get into the City of Dreams theater. But it would be super cool if I could.

Life sucks right now.

No, I don't want to talk about it.

I'll be back next week. Maybe.

Manic Monday, Indeed

This is Edit Bay 1.

Edit Bay 1 has recently decided that it doesn't like me. It made its feelings overwhelmingly known Sunday night/Monday morning.

It ate all my video for Monday morning's show. I had to start completely over.

All that after I stressed over adding school lunch menus into my show's format somehow. And let me tell you, it didn't work. As a matter of fact, it looked horrible on air.

So I get to try something different for Tuesday's show.

Fingers crossed.

Gov't Workers Shut Down 7-Year-Old's Lemonade Stand

There's nothing better on a hot summer day than a cold glass of lemonade.

As a kid, my brothers and I never had the notion of setting up a lemonade stand, but it's still a pretty popular past-time for kids across the nation. Granted, they don't charge 10-cents a cup anymore...

Government officials at any level - county, state, federal - wouldn't concern themselves with the legality of a lemonade stand, would they? I mean, I guess technically any kid who sells lemonade on the corner is cheating the government out of a few dollars worth of taxes.

But they're kids!

In Portland, Oregon, a 7-year-old girl named Julie set up a lemonade stand at an art fair. Her mom helped her get everything set up and make the lemonade.

I can imagine this little girl was super excited to be selling her lemonade at a festival!

But some government inspectors shut her down because she didn't have a license to sell her lemonade.

Since when does a 7-year-old have to have a business license to sell lemonade?!

Needless to say, the following day the county chairman called Julie and her mom to personally apologize.

Artwork!

Other than not being able to spell, I think he turned out pretty good!

When did I Grow Up?! How do I make it Stop?!

Some people never grow up. That's a hard fact to face in life, but something that's even harder to face is the fact that whether you grow up or not doesn't really matter. Life and the world keeps marching on, forever taking all of us - willing or unwilling - into the future.

So when does the future turn into now?

For me it was the day I graduated college. I never really thought that realizing my future was upon me would be centered on one day. I'd always kind of hoped it would come gradually.

But life doesn't work that way.

I was unemployed for a grand total of two months. I filled out application after application, sent my resume and clips to what seemed like hundreds of prospective employers, but the path I'd decided I wanted to walk down wasn't curving in the direction I'd imagined it would. You see, the world of print journalism is a hard one right now, kicking millions of hopeful writers, designers and editors like me to the ground over and over again.

But just when I thought my discouragement would turn into a mundane job at some dead-end place in my hometown, I got a call from the unlikeliest of sources - the #1 news station in the Wiregrass wanted me to come in for an interview. Not being one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I got my completely not broadcast-oriented at all portfolio together and sat down for my first and only broadcast interview. I must have done pretty well because I got the job and have been rising through the ranks ever since.

So my transition into what was once my future was over just as quickly as it had begun. I was no longer an aspiring journalist. I was am an up-and-coming television producer.

I've been living my future since last September, never really making a complete transition from the world of college to the world of professionalism. While I was still living at home with my parents it felt like I was just on some sort of break. Then I moved out and it began to feel more right, more like what I was used to. Making my own hours, living by my own rules, working for the... summer?

And that's when it hit me.

 Summer doesn't mean the same thing anymore. It's just another series of days that blend into weeks... that turn into months... that eventually add up to make a year.

Is this what I went to college for? A life without summers?

Now, instead of spending lazy days watching t.v. or going to the pool, I'll wake up just like I did the day before and get ready to face another work day. Five days a week, 52 weeks a year. That's oppressive.

At least I still have weekends.

Memoirs of an Over-rated Pop Star

Have you heard?

Justin Bieber (I so almost typed Jason, that's how little he means to me) is writing a memoir!

*jumps up and down in exaggerated excitement*

In case you missed the memo, that was sarcasm. Quite possibly the largest dose I've doled out recently.

He's 16 years old. What 16-year-old needs to release a memoir? What, other than having three years of overly hyped-up success on the pop charts with pre-adolescent girls, has this kid done?

Oh, and get this. It's going to be in 3-D.

Behind the Scenes III

Welcome to another edition of Behind the Scenes!

As I'm gathering my thoughts for this edition, the pecan pronunciation commercial came on again. This time my anchor and weathergirl got in on the discussion, and I think the latter won the pronunciation war.

I was raised to say 'puh-kahn' because a 'pee-can' is something you put under your bed.

Moving on...

On the subject of facebook stalking...

Graphics Op: Window shopping on Facebook.

Director: You need to get you some help.

On the subject of our 100+ temperatures...

Director: I love it... I can get a tan, man.

Keep in mind, he doesn't need one.

In between the first and second hours we play one of two versions of The National Anthem. Lately it's been George Jones. Next week it'll probably swap to Leann Rimes. Not that we're not patriotic, but when you hear these not-so-wonderful versions of your nation's song every day you'd prefer the volume be on mute.

This morning, the end of the first show prompted this discussion:

Graphics Op: I don't want to do the second hour. We should just play the National Anthem about ten times.

Audio Op: You say you can't hear it?

Graphics Op: Nah. I'm good.

Director: hahahaha

Yesterday we ended the show with a story about zedonks. It's a cross between a zebra and a donkey, and yes they really do exist. Just like ligers, but that's a different subject entirely.

That story is still inspiring conversations today...

Director: What would a monkey and a baboon create?

Graphic Op: Badoonkey?

Me: Where'd the 'd' come from?

Graphic Op: Babonkey? That's a tough one.

Later...

Director: What do you get when you mix an elephant and a hippopotamus?

Weathergirl: Hippophant!

Happy Tuesday.

The Passing of Time

Sometimes the night seems to drag out for so long. Especially tonight for some reason. I blame a lot of it on the fact that I literally do the same thing, in the same order, at approximately the same time every. single. night.

The morning show is a breeze to put together. Nothing about the show ever changes. I'm recycling what we in the biz like to call "stale" news from the night before, therefore I'm editing more than writing, which for me is easy as pie. I don't ever change up the order in which I do my nightly duties. It's a system that works. Why deviate?

1. Email

2. Stack rundown

3. Edit/Write Scripts

4. Edit Video

Always in that order. The only thing that ever changes is the amount of time it takes to complete each step of the process. And on nights when those times are short, the night itself just seems to have no end in sight.

Remember when I told you about accepting a promotion? Well, that change hasn't come about as quickly as I'd thought it would. Not that I wanted to be thrown into the hectic world of nightly newscasts two days after accepting the offer. But I was looking forward to the sheer energy of those shows, and I have to admit that in comparison my show, what I've come to consider my pet project, just seems stagnant.

Is this what a rut feels like?

Is it even possible to be in a rut when it comes to journalism? Sure, I follow the same process every night, but the information changes with every passing day. That's why it's called news.

So maybe it's the slightest bit of disappointment.

I suppose that could be true, but I don't want to think that way. I love the morning show, but the thought of being promoted to a journalistically prestigious position is lovely.

I don't know what it is, but lately I just feel like the nights are overly long and the days don't have enough minutes.

Behind the Scenes II

The people working behind the scenes of a two-hour show that repeats itself are bound to get bored, especially in the second hour. So I thought it would be kinda fun to share some of the things we've talked about this morning.

How do you pronounce pecan?

'Puh-kahn' or 'pee-can'?

It's a matter of opinion, really.

What's the most embarrassing thing you've done lately you wouldn't want anyone to know about?

There's this one commercial that I absolutely can NOT stand. It's for a local irrigation company, and their slogan/tag line is really... awkward.

"We've been keeping the Wiregrass wet and happy..."

Gross, right? Well I made my disgust known and it prompted the following statements:

Director: "That's what they do. They irrigate."

Graphics Op: "Wet and happy? I like that."

That makes it so much better, yes?

Can you keep a secret?
The graphics op and me are always going at it, but it's all done in something that could possibly be compared to affection...

So he's talking about how many secrets he knows about our coworkers and divulges something.

Graphics Op: "They keep that on the down low."

Me: "If they don't want people to know, why'd they tell you?!"

Throw a tantrum!

The graphics op is in the process of training as a director, so he's directing the second hour of my show. In this one package he messed up a name plate thing and starts stomping his feet and flailing his arms... just like a 2-year-old throwing a tantrum.

Happy Monday!

Monday Blues

Yep.