I had a lot of (weird) nicknames when I worked in the Tri-Cities. The Man from the Progress was one of them.
That one carried over to the past two weeks.
I was the de facto managing editor of another newspaper since the 16th. On the 25th, the actual managing editor started, and I headed up to that newsroom to get her started. It was my second business trip this year, which is two more than any other year.
Being in a management position with regional duties is kinda weird. But it’s been nearly more than years since I’ve been covering something out in the field.
Corporate picked a great person to take the reins at that paper, and I’m excited about the ideas she has for them. Never mind that, technically, I need not worry about them anymore.
I’m also glad I need not worry about something being wrong with my car.
In advance of my field trip, I headed straight from Monday night’s print deadline to driving to Hampton for car repairs. I thought there was something horribly wrong with my car, but it was simple problem: The driver’s seat was too close to the steering wheel from when my wife steered my car out a snow bank. On occasion, I’d hit the wheel as I was getting into or out of the car, which sets off the wheel lock.
Long story short, I drove to Hampton for no reason. But I got to see my mom and Theresa, and my mom gave me food, which is always good.
But I went from Hampton to Charlottesville and almost immediately had to run to the other paper on Wednesday. I stayed there overnight then got back to Charlottesville at about 1 a.m. Friday morning. Then I needed to be at work at about 11 a.m., and stayed there until about 11 p.m.
Last night was my second full good night’s sleep since Sunday night.
Next week should be more or less back to normal. I have a lot of stuff to take care of next Friday-Wednesday, which is going to be intense, but the month will culminate in Bill and Karen’s awesome wedding, gearing up for our new managing editor and getting serious about moving to a house that doesn’t date back to the Truman administration.
Unless it’s been extensively renovated, you don’t want to live in a house dating back to the Truman administration. Never mind that we have a dishwasher.
And definitely not one on the side of a hill.
We’re making some major progress.
Because I’m the man from it.