Convention Coverage: Reporter's Notebook

At the Convention: The Sweaty Ladies Lunch

By Jill Kuraitis, 8-27-08

Reporters, when housed in gaggles, are an intrepid bunch. There is very little complaining except for the odd crank (who, for some reason, always seems to be named Ed.) Used to working in uncomfortable conditions with little control over the details, reporters have learned to sit down, fire up the laptop, locate the restroom, and say hello to the person sitting next to them. Writing takes place in a hubbub, but most journalists tune it out and get lost in their stories. The younger ones use iPods to create a personal bubble of privacy.

At an event as monumental as the Democratic National Convention, there is no time for establishing relationships with other reporters or playing some of the common newsroom games.  (My favorite is the daily word challenge.  Sometimes, an editor will tell her newsroom that the word of the day is some damned thing like “tintinnabulate” or “selcouth”, and the challenge is to work one of them into a story.) But here, shenanigans are set aside out of necessity.

Naturally gregarious, this has been a bit disappointing for me, even though I understand. Swamped is not the word for this gig. 

The only place the female reporters have time to talk is in the restrooms, and the scene in there can be pretty funny.  Much applying of bandaids to blisters, cold wet towels to the back of necks, the changing of shoes and the lending and borrowing of girlie provisions like hairspray take place. Young ones just starting out watch the older for what’s acceptable and what’s not, and it’s the only place you’ll find marathon complaining.

Denver has been a great host city, the convention well-organized with a few exceptions, and the press center spacious.  All the planners and organizers should be commended.

Then they should be slapped upside the head.

What nobody told us was that for security reasons, we’d have to stand in lines and walk miles each day in the direct, hot sun.  Vehicles can’t get close to the press entrance, so it’s about half a mile to the frisk-and-search area.  Doesn’t sound like much, does it? Try it in nice clothes and shoes, carrying a heavy bag, two or three times a day. The press room smells…well, the press room smells. Too much information?  Try this:

Today, I was invited to a special fundraiser called the Sweaty Ladies Lunch.  The money being raised was going to a young journalist’s scholarship fund, but frankly that wasn’t the point.  It was just an excuse to bond a little.

The highlight of the lunch was a demonstration by a middle-aged journalist (no, not me) with a rolling briefcase so big it was really luggage.  With cheesy music played on a little recorder, she pulled out item after item she considers essential “for national conventions, coronations, and the election of popes.”

Here’s what was in the bag:  sneakers, socks, band-aids, a change of under, um, things, a clean blouse, hair gear, makeup, pantyhose, umbrella, sunscreen, hat, reporter supplies like notebooks and camera, laptop, power cords - even a bag with soap and a little towel.

When she pulled out a showercap, we were in stitches.  It was all the things we wish we had in the convention center but didn’t have the nerve to bring.

Then she unloaded a slim briefcase borrowed from a male reporter for the occasion.  Here’s what was in it:  laptop, power cord, notebook, pens, business cards and a comb. We laughed until we were wiping our eyes.

It’s hell being a woman.

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