This one's for you Paul.

 I came to work yesterday lookin' *real fancy like*.  I mean, I pulled out all the stops.  Skirt. Went and got my hair did (cut for the first time in months). I even SHOWERED. Rookie mistake.

Why?  Let's just say when I walked back into the newsroom after my story yesterday, my aroma made everyone crave BBQ.  Some even had that look... that hungry reporter who would eat day old cheese at the assignment desk if that meant free food look.  (Don't ever get stranded on a mountain or island with a reporter.  A reporter with an empty stomach=you lose.)

A few hours earlier, I had been all settled into a story about a census scam.  Yes. A nice day in an air conditioned newsroom, plugging away at my insightful, helpful consumer story.  Then, I get the news no  reporter wants to hear: "Hey, E. You're story has changed to GRASS FIRE. Get in the live truck and GO. NOW."  My day flipped onto its head, and farted in my face. 

(In my head: BUT MY SKIRT! MY HAIR! whhhhhaaat?)

Fast forward 30 minutes.  I'm in the middle of a cow pasture.  Hair: a total loss. I'm a few feet away from a grass fire with 40 mph wind gusts throwing buckets of smoke in my face. My eyes are burning, and I'm being forced to make a regrettable fashion statement.  I had to side tie my skirt with a rubber band to avoid giving the firefighters a sideshow.  

Ok. Fire is under control. Live shot done. Everything, going ok. I'm proud of myself for pulling it together, actually feeling good about the story, ready to get back to the station to hand it in. I just want to leave.  

Then, my day gets gassy again.  

We're driving out of the yard/pasture when my photographer decides to take a *shortcut* through a ditch.  His stroke of genius lands us 3 feet deep in quick sand/mud.  (Directly in the line of the smoke). 

I won't bore you with the details that were the next two hours of the day but here are the cliffs notes: Fighting/cursing with my photographer about which tow truck to call. Disappointment when Farmer Ron's tractor couldn't pull the truck out of the mud. Oh, and the unbearable humiliation of having the firefighters (who clearly had nothing better to do like, oh, I don't know, fight a FIRE) try digging the truck out.

Then, my hero arrived.  His name is Paul.  He drives tow trucks.  He saves lives. 

Paul freed the live truck.  Paul didn't judge me for smelling like a 4th of July BBQ.  Paul liked me just the way I am. 

So Paul, even though I know you'll never read this because you don't have a computer and you don't really know how close I was to losing my &^$% yesterday... Paul, this one's for you. 

Love you forever, 

E