Are you a hobbier?

For my new job, I had to write a short paragraph about myself that they could run in the paper, introducing me along with the other new hires.

The HR woman gave me a handout with a few examples to give me an idea of what to write. They were all pretty straight forward - So-and-so comes to us from the Other Publication where she was an ad exec, blah blah blah. Here she will be doing this and this.

But then there was a line that included the person's hobbies: "When she's not working, she can be found jogging and buying produce at the roadside stands." (Not kidding, that was really one.) Or: "So-and-so, a mother or two, enjoys painting and kayaking."

Well, I was stumped. All of a sudden, I couldn't think about any hobbies I had. What do I do in my free time? I couldn't feasibly write "In her spare time, Sara can be found lounging around her hot ass apartment, sweating and drinking moderately-priced domestic beers." I just didn't seem appropriate.

Do I really have any hobbies? I tried knitting, and dropped it after a couple months. I don't play on any sports teams, I am not an avid cyclist or the likes, and I don't coach little league. I have friends who rock climb regularly; my boyfriend designs computer programs in his spare time; another friend trains for triathlons.

Is my life totally void of hobbies? Is it true that some people are just hobbiers, and tend to pour themselves into some extracurricular activity, when others are happy doing, well, nothing?

But then, talking it over with some friends, we began to debate just how you define a hobby, versus, say, a pastime. I mean, I love to read. But does that constitute a hobby, or is it just a pastime? Watching television is arguably similar - but I wouldn't give it hobby status.

So we determined a hobby must be something that you do regularly, that you are interested in enough to network with other people about or read trade journals on or join a club for. For example, I am often asking people for good books to read, and I have always wanted to join a book club (now I wish I had, so that I could have included that on my new job bio.)

Pastimes are less involved, like watching TV, hanging out with friends, playing Scrabble.

Either way, I am unsatisfied with my lack of legitimate hobbies. Nothing seems to have a level of frequency - such as traveling, tubing, hiking - to constitute a hobby, and others have a level of ridiculousness when claimed as a hobby - dancing, blogging, drinking beer.

Perhaps it's time for me to pick one and stick with it, and then join a club or network of sometime to further legitimize it. I am taking suggestions.

Time to go shopping for new business casual

It's official: I am employed.

Finally. A job. A real life, full-time, paying job.

As some of you might recall, I interviewed with a place a few weeks ago. It went great, I met everyone, and I thought I was as good as hired. But then many long anxious days pass, and a mind-scrambling back and forth ensues - give us story ideas, now make them better and gives us new ones, ok now do a test story for us, ok now sit by the phone and wait and go slowly crazy, ok now be patient because we are going through budget talks and we'll let you know soon.

But I kept on them, and finally yesterday they asked me to stop by the office. The editor coyly asks me how I am feeling. I say anxious. He asks me if I want to work there. I say yes, and he says, well you're going to, and hands over an envelope with the offer letter.

Phew.

So we chat, I tell him I feel good about it, but that I need to look at the details and think it over and will call them. I took my offer letter home (tearing into the envelope before getting back to my car), bought a 12-pack and invited a friend over and proceeded to get drunk in the middle of the afternoon.

This morning, I tried my hand at a little salary negotiation, which didn't really go as planned. I knew I'd be taking a cut going back to newspapers, but then when it became a reality and I could see the numbers on the page, I felt disappointed, a little crestfallen, and I guess a little frustrated. Sure, I had hoped for more, and I had gotten pretty comfortable this last year of freelancing for magazines and traveling and living the life of relative luxury. But it took a little reminder that this is indeed why I decided to go back to grad school and that I believe in this publication and my desire to be a part of a newspaper.

The fact that I am getting paid less, but shelling out tons more each month paying off these stinking grad school loans, stings. My father keeps saying it was an investment in my future, and it was worth it, and I wanted this and I followed it. I am hoping he's right, and leave it to my dad to put it all into perspective.

Plus, I'm just being a baby about it. Truth is, I really wanted this job regardless and I am really excited to be doing daily reporting again.

So on Tuesday morning, I will get up and shower and dress and eat a bowl of cereal and go to work at an office. It's been two years since I've done that (grad school newsroom not withstanding), and I can't wait. I am finally and officially employed.

a man and his unlikely dream car

When I was a kid - maybe five or six years old - my dad drove an early 1970s silver-gray Gremlin. You might not remember such a car, as they apparently only made the gem for less than a decade, and stopped before I was nary a twinkle in my mother's eye.

But my dad loved his Gremlin. I remember riding to school in the bare-bones jalopy, my dad with his burly dark beard and grey hair and my brother and I silenced in the back seat by the ever-present NPR playing on the AM/FM radio. I didn't know any one else that owned a Gremlin, and in fact, I still have never met anyone with such a privilege.

At some point, the car was unceremoniously sold for something no doubt more practical and less memorable, but I think my dad has thought about that car from time to time for the past two decades. Little did I know, he had also recently been scanning the pages of EBay.

"I just called to tell you I am the proud owner of a 1974 lime green Gremlin."

This was his voice mail to me this weekend. I had heard he placed a bid on the car a few days before, but my brother and I both were a little skeptical that he would follow through with the inevitable last minute bidding wars before the auction closed on Saturday morning. We assumed he'd get outbid by a Gremlin collector (there has to be a collector somewhere in the world, right?) or decide it wasn't really worth it, and really what business did the dean of a high falootin' school have driving around such a silly car? (I can hear the Media Relations folks now, trying to explain that they have been patient with him in the past, but this might have just pushed it passed the line of what is acceptable for academia.)

But Pops won the auction with a final bid that was more than double his opening bid (but still coming in hundreds lower than some women pay for wedding dresses). And now he is indeed the proud owner of a lime green - oh yes, lime - Gremlin, sold by a guy who called it a "fun car, old like me" and who promised to throw in a bag of M&Ms - plain, not peanut - to the buyer.

Ever since he traded in his early midlife crisis Mazda sports car for a large, sensible, white Toyota several years ago, my father has complained about the car. Under the guise of frustrations about a rattling this and shaking that, he looked for reasons to hate the car. It's just not practical, he'd say, with all these automatic buttons and bells and whistles. He always preferred driving my 10-year-old manual-everything Toyota that doesn't even have a radio or a hubcap to its name. But now I wonder if the only thing wrong with his car is that it isn't a Gremlin.

I am not sure if he's going to give up his practical, acceptable for a man of standing in academia and the community Toyota. I guess at first I assumed he'd have both cars, until I was reminded that people don't keep a Gremlin stowed in the garage for weekend jaunts around town. I can certainly picture him driving it, 25 years later still donning a beard (although considerably less hair) and listening to NPR. Sure, it will likely attract a few stares, but he should be no stranger to that, as he and my step-mother are admirers of "found art", a.k.a. junk (picture a "bottle tree" next to the driveway, adorned with chardonnay bottles with their labels intact) that decorates the yard.

But what else would he do with it other than ditch the conservative ride and slip comfortably back behind the wheel of a Gremlin? Either way, I hope he'll let me drive it when I'm home next.

Here's a shot of it I pulled from Ebay. Next, I'll try to get one of my dad sitting happily in the driver's seat.

Oops, another monthly expense

The folks who run memberships at gyms know what they were doing. No matter how much information you try to drag out of them on the phone, they always insist you come down and see the gym and meet them. And despite my intentions, they always seem to rope me in, cut me a deal, and have me signing a contract.

That was the case today, when I meant to just go down there, get a feel for the atmosphere and an idea of the monthly rates. It's nothing special. It's a gym, has some machines, a few classes, a locker room. I am itching for some physical activity, and the aforementioned stifling heat isn't really conducive to a mid-day jog.

But considering I don't have a steady income and I am not sure if I'll be getting a job anywhere near the gym, I was hesitant to sign up just yet.

Then again, if I don't sign up today, I'll have to pay the $150 fee when I do decide to join, the mastermind salesman tells me. I'm sure you'll be working down here, he says. This really is the closest gym to you for the best price, he pushes. Then we start talking deals: I am shaking my head, hesitating, he's jotting down numbers and wringing his hands. Then I am handing over my credit card.

To my credit, I was able to talk him down from a one- or two-year contract, to one for six months, in case I needed to cancel and didn't want to pay the ridiculous fee. He also gave me the cheaper, two-year contract rate, and the first month and a half free.

Ok, I know what you are thinking: He does that for everyone; (once again) you're not special. I guess that's probably the case. Sure, I'm probably a sucker. But at least I didn't sign my entire life - and life savings - away. And, I have a meeting with a personal trainer tomorrow morning. (Which, I hope is nothing like my friend's recent trip to a trainer in her new home of Singapore, where they told this petite girl that she was obese and out of shape. Yikes!)

I think the heat is making me delirious

Just as I am getting over the Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey break-up - deciding to side with sweet, hunky, wounded Nick although I think Jessica can do no wrong - and just as the Jennifer Anniston and Brad Pitt thing hurts less - despite the residual anger at seeing Brad and Angelina Jolie together flaunting their giant, gorgeous family all around the world - now Carmen Electra and Dave Navaro split.

Devastating. I watched their engagement and wedding on MTV's "Till Death Do Us Part" (c'mon, admit it, I know you did, too), and there was just something about them. They're both beautiful and exotic and sexy, and together it just seemed.... right. What a loss.

***

I'll go ahead and join the collective groan across the country about the stifling heat. Here it's close to 100, with a heat index several degrees higher. Before you all nod your heads in agreement, testifying about how you're sweating the second you get out of the shower or the car is a sauna, take into account that chances are you are now or at some point during the day sitting in an air conditioned office. (Granted, I don't have to commute in shirt sleeves or a tie or pants or heels, and when I venture out it's in minimal clothing.) I wake up to the morning sun baking the living room, which then progresses to the back of the apartment, making the place a veritable sweat box. There is little relief, save for the three-plus showers I have been taking a day. So, I just thought I'd comment on it, too.

***

In my unintentional quest to read every written word in this apartment (while looking for a job and trying to be a generally productive citizen, of course), I just read a really interesting article in the latest Wired magazine that gives me hope. It's about a new theory that says some creative geniuses have their breakthrough early in life, where others are more methodic, "plodding along, peaking late in their careers." I often read about people who have published a dozen books, won a Pulitzer and changed the world before their 30th birthday. It always makes me wonder what the hell I have been doing with myself and why I am not famous yet (sitting in this sweltering apartment, making my way through the Internet and writing to this blog might have a small thing to do with it).

But then, maybe I'm a late bloomer? Maybe I just need a few more years under my belt, and as the current geniuses are fading into the sunset, I'll be standing nobly atop the float, cruising through the crowd, waving at my admirers as they throw money and flowers and acclaim my way. Just a few more years...

***

It's such a rare occurrence that I thought I'd document it here. Last night, I had a full, restful night of sleep. Unlike the last few nights, I didn't wake at 3 a.m. or 5:30 a.m. to workshop everything from the latest job interview to new schemes to make money. I didn't lay open-eyed in bed, my feet twitching from restlessness, longing to make it through the night. Instead, I slept through it. It was awesome.

a morning show rant

I've had kind of a one-track mind lately, my thoughts overwhelmingly dominated by the stresses of finding a job. Will they call back? Did they like my ideas? Will I ever work again, and if I do, will I remember what to do, how the phone works, how to ask questions?

Understandably, I've been blogging less, since as you no doubt are gathering, this can get tiring and doesn't make for engaging discussion.

But I had to document - or reiterate, as I know I have addressed this in the past - my utter, visceral hatred for Ann Curry. Many of you likely have jobs and lives and whatnot that preclude you from sitting in front of the television in the mornings picking apart the mannerisms and characteristics of one Today show host. So allow me.

Now, first let me say that I am sure she is a nice person, means well, has a good heart, yadda yadda yadda. That said, I think she is a horrible television personality - I hesitate to use the word "reporter" for what she does. When she interviews people on sensitive topics, she contorts her face in this oh-for-shame, I-feel-for-you look that only comes across as contrived and condescending. (This reminds me of the Tyra Banks fat suit incident, where for her show she donned a fat suit for an hour, badgered people about how she expected them to react, then sat with real life fat women on her stage and cried, acting like she had any small clue what they were going through.)

Curry never looks comfortable. She has a nervous energy to her, like the nerdy kid doesn't quite fit in, so laughs a bit too loud and whines rather than holds her own in the banter with other hosts. When Katie Couric did it, it was charming and natural.

I just watched her unabashedly fawn over Diane Lane, showering her with compliments, acting like they were best friends. Again, with Katie it felt genuine, but such charisma is lost on her replacement. On the other hand, the other Today host Natalie Morales has it. She's calm, humble, comfortable and brings a feeling of realism to the lineup.

Why am I all of a sudden a media critic, caring about the stupid morning show? Really not sure. Why don't you just turn off the television, Sara? Okay, I will, but it's like a train wreck. Television in general kind of is - except for the most awesome show ever: So You Think You Can Dance, and most public television programming. Most of it makes me angry and bored and disillusioned, but despite my intense negative emotions, it's hard for me to walk away. Perhaps because it allows me to focus on something other than the toils of finding work.

Why did I chose this career again?

My job search trudges on, and I am trying desperately to stay positive, when really, professional morale is at an all time low, and I am this close to considering nursing school (I hear nurses are in demand) or the old stand-by career (if I had the talent, that is): professional back-up dancer.

I interviewed at one place that I felt really good about. In fact, the interview went great, and one of the editors and I hit it off like we were old friends from the block. I met with pretty much everyone in the damn newsroom, including the publisher, who shook my hand and congratulated me, since meeting him meant I was going to get an offer. Awesome, right? Well then days pass, during which there is some back and forth with one of the editors who wanted me to come up with story ideas, then wanted different, fresher, more enterprising ones (all this without having the sources or knowing the beat or the area) and now there's talk of a test story.

*sigh*

*shoulders falling*

So I am still searching, and trying to ignore this sneaking sense of panic I can feel coming on. "Oh, you'll get a job one day." "It'll all work out soon." Really? Really? I'm not so sure. I guess it's sort of comforting to hear from other journalists in similar situations. But it would be more comforting if we all got calls back and abundant job offers.

this is a test

In a job interview yesterday, an editor scrawled on a piece of paper his editing test for me. I have been staring at this paper since then, and although it seems strangely familiar to me, I can not for the life of me figure it out.

So here it is:

On a blank piece of paper, he wrote this:
"There are three errors in this sentance.
1.
2.
3."

OK, first I can see he did spell "sentance" wrong, so that's one. But are there others? I, of course, Googled it, and came up with similar versions of the test, that indeed had additional errors - one had "error" spelled wrong and the other had "is" rather than "are." Then I guess the third error is that there are only two errors. Christ.

So I am beginning to think this editor made a mistake. But considering I am trying to impress this guy, I am not so willing to concede. Dang.

"The Greatest City in America"

... So they say, in bright white letters on every single bench throughout this city. That might be overstating it just a tad, but so far, so good. (They also call it Charm City, but I am still trying to figure that one out, too.) Anyway, since I've been here a couple weeks and am finally getting settled into an apartment, I thought it was time to share a few observations on Baltimore:

1. Whatever city employee in charge of setting those timing boxes for traffic lights should be fired. No, more than fired. More like fired, kicked in the chins and then forced to drive around the city nonstop for a week. It's all off. The major thoroughfares that are supposed to get you up- or downtown quickly by timing the lights so that at the proper speed you get all greens aren't set right. No matter what, a good 10 minutes is added to your trip through town thanks to those god-awful lights. Even on smaller streets. At first, you think it's just not your day, then you wonder if the traffic gods are out to get you, and finally you realize the timing is all screwed up for everyone and perhaps no one is in a hurry or cares enough to say something.

2. There's something about Baltimoreans and their snow balls. Every few blocks or so, there are stands set up selling snow balls. You remember them: shaved ice doused in neon sugar water perched atop flimsy paper cones? Sure, they are likely quite refreshing in this heat, but I mean, really? Snow cones? Does anyone else find that to be completely random?

3. This city is full of energy, and from what I've seen, mostly good energy. There are people out everywhere all the time. (Yes, I say this knowing full well that I have not and don't plan to venture into the neighborhoods that are mostly desolate boarded up townhouses and "no trespassing" signs.) But for the most part, you can fell the realness, the life of the city, all around. Sure, in some neighborhoods, this life sometimes morphs into a tension, an uncertainty of what feels poised to happen, but it all adds up to an energy I like.

4. One Web site nebulously explained that it's called the Charm City because of all the charms here, such as museums and culture. Okay. But on a recent drive out to a Target north of town exposed me one potential charm: The Great Blacks in Wax Museum (now on my to-do list), and one just random image that I am still trying to figure out: Picture a properly-uniformed policeman sitting regally atop one of those hairy-booted Clydesdale horses, meandering through the paved streets. Now, replace the Clydesdale with a regular old mangy white horse and replace the policeman with a slouched black man donning an oversized white T-shirt, black cargo pants, sneakers, a side-cocked cap, and a touch of bling around his neck. I kid you not. This was the image - the charm, perhaps, I saw wandering down the street. In retrospect, I wonder if he was riding near a park (maybe he rented a horse for a day?), but I can't picture the park, and can only this random rider on the gritty streets of Baltimore.

So those are just a few of my initial thoughts on this city. We just moved into our new apartment, which basically just meant brining over a couple bags of clothes and a box or two we hauled from city to city and placing them pathetically in the middle of the hardwood floor. Really, we have nothing. In fact, this cavernous palace of an apartment (c'mon my point of reference is a single room in Chicago where I could basically reach the fridge, my desk and the bed without getting out of my one chair) seems unfillable.

And as much as I talked about really wanting a couch and how that would be my first purchase, the day we signed the lease we were at Wal-mart buying a grill and four plastic deck chairs for the back deck. The next day: Hula girl lights to string up. Sure, there may not be a stitch of furniture in the entire place, but we are ready for BBQs on the back deck. Priorities, I guess.

the need to feel like you're in

Yesterday on This American Life on public radio, host Ira Glass was interviewing a comedian, and their conversation has really stuck with me.

In particular, I keep thinking about Glass' comments. They were talking about growing up and families and feeling accepted. Glass said it seems like there are some people who are always in. From the beginning, and through the toughest times in life - with family, high school, even adult relationships and marriage - they always feel as if they are in, like they belong, and they don't doubt they belong there and are completely wanted there.

Then there are those, as Glass identified himself, that need constant approval, as if at any moment it's all going to come crashing down. He said even with his wife, he wakes up each day feeling the need to prove himself anew.

His words really struck a chord with me, as I see that in myself. I find myself unable to get completely comfortable, particularly in my relationships. I often don't feel in. Although I know the relationships I have spent so many years building couldn't possibly be so fleeting, and I also have to give credit to the other players in this, but I have a hard time accepting the acceptance, I guess. At any moment, I feel like my friends are going to say, "Sara, it's been fun, but you just don't fit in, and we've decided things would be better without you here." Or, "Sara, we like you, you're great, but you have to understand you will always be one ring removed, one level away from the center."

I know most of this is self esteem. And I know how annoying it can be for those who care about me to every once in a while be faced with my need for approval, and trust me it's something I have spent many years working on. ... But is there something else? Maybe something from our childhood? Something in the genes?

The comedian he was interviewing described a time when she was called on stage to be an audience volunteer, and at the end, when the host ask for everyone to applause, they all did - except for her dad. His approval wasn't so easy. Later when she asked why he didn't clap, he said, "What for? You didn't do anything!"

So that alluded to her childhood issues with approval. Thinking about my life, I can't find any of these moments or emotions - and I will be the first to say that there is a point where you can't keep blaming your parents and your childhood. But I guess the whole topic (which was maybe 3 minutes of the whole show) got me thinking about my own personality, and the roots of it.

It also made me wonder if this is indeed true - are there people like this, is it this black and white? Are there people who naturally feel in, while others always feel like approval is fragile and temporary? Or does everyone have moments of each, and low self esteem makes some more prone?

getting settled

Finally. I have landed in a city that I might just stay in for more than a couple months.

But not without a slight travel mishap. And as these things go, it happened mere miles away from our final destination. We were tooling along a Maryland interstate, licking the last sticky bit of ice cream cones from our fingers, when I heard the familiar sound of a tire blow out.

No big deal. Right? Well, that's until we pulled over and tried to unscrew the lug nuts and maybe one was rusted or a wire was crossed or it just was not our lucky afternoon, but one nut just slap broke off. After many tugs and many more profanities, pride was swallowed and AAA was called. Kenny came out in his badass towtruck, chatted us up, sprayed some WD40 on the lug and tugged the sad, limp tire off.

Again, all set. Right? Not so much. Kenny proceeds to screw on the spare tire to set us on our merry way, when he notices the spare doesn't fit. It's the wrong spare. How does this happen, I ask. Who knows? In all his days (and judging by his beet-red baby face couldn't have been many), Kenny has never seen this.

A short truck ride with Kenny and a couple hours later, I had a new tire and related accoutrements, $200 less in my bank account, and a slight buzz from beers at Ruby Tuesdays while we waited.

Finally, we made it. I think I am still having mixed emotions about moving and trying to get settled, as illustrated by my complete, unexpected come-apart in the parking lot after seeing The Break Up (and I don't think I was torn up by the acting). Maybe I'm still a bit stressed about hearing back about an apartment (fingers crossed, people, this place rules), still being in everyone's way - this time with all our stuff spread out across my friends' living room, finding work, being a grown-up and all the related business that goes with that. Yep, I guess that's it, and while I try to keep an oh-this-is-what-makes-life-exciting attitude, I am daydreaming of a time where I am finally settled. It seems so foreign these days, I wonder if it exists.

who am I kidding?

I should have known the hiatus wouldn't last long, and really this month or so was too long, if you ask me. For a few weeks, I reflected on this forum and licked my wounds and tried to figure out if I wanted to keep writing here. Then I realized that as usual, I was overthinking it, being a tad melodramatic, and I just needed to just shut up and get back to the business of writing.

To follow in the "mass email" theme, I'll start with a bit of news about me. I have finally determined where I am moving. After bouncing around for a few months (most recently staying at my dad's house with all my stuff stored in the garage), and being somewhat transient for the last two years, I finally have plans to settle in Baltimore. I know, I know. The city doesn't really command the drum roll and flying confetti as some other spots, but I do think it will be the best spot for me now. Trust me, I know the pros and cons of the city, and have spent time there when I lived in DC. (As my friend CK put it, it has just the right amount of white trash - which is a good thing that DC altogether lacked - but it doesn't have a rep for being particularly safe.)

Anyway, my long-time boyfriend (that's my new term for him... says more than just boyfriend, but he isn't my husband...) just accepted an awesome job. We've also got friends there, and we were ready to move somewhere kind of familiar and close to home. For me, the job search has amounted to a massive bitch slap, so I decided to step away for a bit, continue to freelance, and then once settled, find an equally awesome journo-related job.

So that's the news. We leave next week. And my first item of business after we find an apartment is to buy a couch. (We have nary a stick of furniture between the two of us and I fantasize about stretching out on a real live couch - and not the kind that was lifted from the high school rec room like the one we used to have.)

I have spent the last two weeks at my dad's house in Alabama, and as usual, there are so many things that are just awesome and so many things that are shocking.

Awesome: Perhaps it's a given, but what comes to mind is the stick-to-your-ribs pulled pork BBQ sandwiches dripping in sweet and smoky sauce and served next to greasy onion rings and cold light beer.

Shocking: Bumper sticker in rural Alabama that had a Confederate flag and said "Fighting Terrorism since 1861." Reminds me of a T-shirt I saw in Panama City Beach, Florida that said alongside a Confederate flag: "You've got your X, I've got mine."

Awesome: Floating lazily down a river in inner tubes with a few cool Bud Light tall boys in hand, spotting sunning turtles and generally having the giggles. (Equally awesome is the man who drove us in the back of his truck down to the river: He was donning dirty tan overalls and a baseball cap, had eyes that didn't entirely point in your direction when he was talking to you, and when he spoke, it often took a few minutes and a couple other natives to understand what he was saying.)

Shocking: Someone close to me (who's relation and name is withheld) saying "Now we just have to figure out what to do with all the Mexicans."

That's the South for you, I guess. For a while, we considered staying. There were a couple of job options that had this fine town on the table, and it was easy to get swept up in the romantic idea of living here - where we have friends and family, the weather's hot but nice, the food's always greasy delicious, the people are nice and the pace of living is slow and kind. As much as I love it, I think it's probably lucky that it didn't work out. Perhaps I love it so much because I am only here to visit. I can shake my head at the local political ads that use the word "liberal" and "gay" with disdain and the lingering ignorance of the South. And I can revel in the culture, the food, the lifestyle. And maybe one day, it will draw me back.

finding the proper forum

I would like to make an amending entry on my feelings on Mother's Day. I spent this weekend with my two closest friends, the two women in the world who - as they once again proved this weekend - often know me better than I know myself. These two friends sat me down (on the hallway steps at 4 in the morning after countless Bloody Marys and beers... as only best friends can) and told me about myself.

First, they held a mirror up to me on my feelings about Mother's Day. What I am coming to realize is that for 15 years, I have been basically a miserable, angry, bitter sap who has made it her mission to stew in sadness while making all those around her feel guilty and rotten. I've allowed myself to take the residual anger of an 11-year-old who lost her mother to cancer and save it up for this one day. I've managed to (for the most part) channel that anger into pride, strength, love and celebration on other days, such as the holidays or anniversaries. Most other days, I hold my head high with the knowledge of who she was, what she gave me, and who I am because of her.

Not so on Mother's Day. Instead, I had allotted one day to feel like total shit. And until now, I thought that was OK. I thought, hey, it's my prerogative. I'm allowed to feel this way, to allow for this hurt, and no one can tell me otherwise. Wrong. My best friends can - and did - tell me otherwise. Turns out, I was making others around me miserable and uncomfortable, and in the end, it wasn't doing much for my mental health either. So I am beginning to realize that the day will always be hard, but rather than curse those who enjoy it, I have find ways to channel the hurt productively. Rather than set aside a day for the years of compounding anger and bitterness, I have to accept it. I have to find a way to celebrate my mother, and allow those around me to do the same.

*****

On a somewhat unrelated note, I am also reconsidering the fate of this blog. It has been brought to my attention that perhaps the subject matter of these entries is not entirely appropriate for publication.

When I sit down to write to this blog, I try to consider that someone might be reading it, including those I am writing about. I know the best writing comes from personal experience. All the entries about pop culture and media are filler, just to keep words flowing in between real entries, those about the moments that mean the most to me. Writing makes what has happened more real to me, more important, sorting out my thoughts through words and somehow making a record of these moments, and I chose to write the more personal entries mainly for myself, because when I do, I feel freer, and fuller and more in control. And if there is one single reader who reads something I wrote and then thinks about their own life - their own mothers, best friends, insecurities, anxieties, for example - then there is a sliver of reward in that for me as well.

However, I now realize that while I often try to censor myself a bit to avoid offending someone in my stories or simplify the complexities of my relationships to make the stories palpable for an (albeit small) audience, I am at the same time short changing them. I'm not doing them justice. And in the end, that censorship isn't doing the stories justice either.

Plus, here I have the control over the story. I control what to write about and what details to put in, taking the control away from people who ultimately see their lives written about here. I appreciate that not having control over how your life or shared experiences are portrayed is frustrating.

Perhaps I hadn't really defined what I wanted this forum to be, which explains why I fluctuate between musings on pop culture and intensely personal moments, a combination that perhaps seems a bit nasty or degrading. But I struggle with wanting to write about what is really in my heart, and I am just not sure I have enough to say about the filler stuff to fill a blog.

I never intended to insult or degrade the people closest to me or cheapen the experiences that clearly define who I am. But perhaps this blog isn't the proper forum for what I really want to write about.

So I am not sure what I am going to do next, but it's looking like this might be it for this blog. I'll at least need to take a little hiatus to work out my intentions and the proper place to write. If I find that I either have enough to say about the world or that I am prepared to take on the task as a writer (and the risk of overexposing and offending those close to me) of pouring my life out onto these pages, then I'll be back.

more lessons in reporting

I just finished one of the hardest stories I have ever had to write, or at least it felt like it this week when I was hunched over reams of Census data, a calculator in hand, numbers swirling around my head like little cartoon birds when someone gets knocked out.

I should have known. My editor warned me it would be a tough story, heavy on the numbers with lots of financial type data to gather and put together in a somewhat readable story. But I agreed, and a week later, I wanted to call her up, tell her it was a dumb, dead end story idea, I'm not a damn market researcher and I quit.

Instead, I wrote it, but not without frequent bouts of blood, sweat and tears. What a relief to have it done.

One frustrating highlight of the research was calling folks for information, and not one but two sources giving me this response: "Well, if you try Googling 'Generation X financial data' or 'Gen X home buying', you should come up with something." Or "Why don't you try the Census Bureau?" One guy told me to plug "Generation X" into Wikipedia - this was after 35 minutes on the phone with him debating just what date this generation begins and ends, a minutia that had about zero relevance to the overall story.

My response: "Really? Really, folks? Are you f-ing kidding me? Do you really think I haven't thought to do that? No? Then thanks, thanks so much for helping me with this research. I haven't even heard of this 'Google' you speak of!"

Not really, but I wanted to. I guess stories like these teach us something about being a reporter - you know, how to dig into financial data for relevant information, how to expand your search when you are hitting a wall with every single call you make, how not to let on to your editors that you are totally overwhelmed and annoyed and are just not sure you are capable of doing this story, how not to overtly insult your sources.

On the job front, I called a newspaper to introduce myself and make sure the editor got my resume and clips. His secretary answered and I explained why I was calling, and before I even finished my sentence, she quipped: "He got 'em." Right.

And by the way, let me just say I too am absolutely stunned about The Great American Idol Upset of 2006 that is Chris getting voted off. I agree with him; perhaps we all just assumed he was a shoo-in and didn't bother to vote. I mean, how dare we as Americans allow Chesty McBoobs with all her button-popping performances stay on when this hotty rocker gets the boot? Truth is, it's rigged; it's a great big Alabama conspiracy and Taylor Hicks is probably gonna win anyway. Whether it's because the 'Ham is a "hotbed of undiscovered talent," as one Bama columnist claims, or the fact that Fox is the only channel Alabamians get (my theory), Alabama will likely win again.

Happy stinkin' Mother's Day

My mother made another cameo in my dreams last night. She does this every once in a while, always looking a bit different, but each time I can tell it's her.

We were shopping. All I remember is trying on a grey jumpsuit from Bebe (clearly nothing I would do in real life), and she tried on some other atrocity. She had shoulder-length curly hair and a round, smiling pink face, reminiscent of photos I've seen of her as a younger woman.

There's no mystery in why she's on my mind. Mother's Day is right around the corner, sneaking up on me like an impending storm cloud. Even before the ubiquitous commercials, billboards and magazine ads, I can feel it coming. But each year they show up to remind us all that it's a day to thank our mother and give her a giant hug and maybe a card and some flowers and show just how much she's our rock and our best friend - a day for me to yet again remember I don't have that.

My best friend's mother died on Mother's Day last year. How about that? In some ways, it seemed unspeakably cruel, but on the other it seemed like her final F you to cancer and even a conscious comfort to her daughters. As my friend put it: Now, they only really have one main day that f-ing sucks, while I for example have two: the day she died (right around Thanksgiving) and Mother's Day.

Each year, an overwhelming part of me is angry, resentful and bitter, wanting to give all those with moms a swift kick in the stomach and the insensitive advertisers a piece of my mind. But I do try desperately to temper that with positive memories of my own mother and keep in mind that I am so lucky to be her daughter, even if she was only alive for 11 years of it.

Fifteen years later, Mother's Day is still so hard, and my guess is it will always be hard. I remember one particularly tough one a few years ago when I just felt like my insides had been sucked out and every one around me was glowing with love and fullness. My two best girlfriends knew it, and they took me out to get wasted on margaritas, letting me tell random stories of my mom while tearing up at the restaurant table. For that, I'll always be thankful, and this time I owe them the drinks (especially considering one of them was said friend who's now in the Dead Moms Club).

So I might not have a mom to send daisies to, but I do have people around me that over the years have been there to fill me up - get me drunk when I need it.

an hour of my life I will never get back

Did I really just spend the last hour watching Deal or No Deal? I am afraid so. I couldn't turn it off, and as much as I want to say it was the charisma of the contestant with his fuchsia shirt, sporadic bouts of tears, maniacal jumping and generally positive energy, I think it's more.

Here are my initial thoughts of the show as I recover from the shame and undeniable heart palpitations incurred in the last hour:

1. This game requires exactly zero skill. We have almost entirely abandoned shows like Jeopardy that called on individuals to use their brains.

2. Because it requires zero skill, anyone - including this beaming man who drove Howie to remark "I feel like I am on the Broadway version of Deal or No Deal" - can walk away with tons of money, and it plays on the "that could be me" mentality.

3. About two dozen gorgeous women stand poised, waiting for their case number to be called and for Howie to direct them to open the case. They are gorgeous. Absurdly and ultra-degradingly, the women are all wearing matching dresses. Said dresses are obscenely low cut, so their shiny breasts nearly spill out as they jump up and down with glee when their opened case has a low dollar amount. Though this goes against every feminist fiber of my being and I want desperately to lambast the sexist show for playing on the country's misogynist attitudes, I too couldn't help but stare at these women. Again, they are gorgeous. (By the way, why isn't anyone mad about that? I mean, isn't someone raising a stink about how these women are portrayed? Did they really have to use 30-some-odd models to open the f-ing cases? And they were actually named in People's Most Beautiful list? Seriously, folks.)

4. What's perhaps more annoying, however, is that the contestants and audience act like these women have any part in this, save for smiling ear to ear, squeezing their boobs together, and if called upon, making one small motion to open a silver case. They didn't put the card in that case. Why are you thanking them? They have nothing to do with this. They don't give a shit. They are getting paid truck loads regardless of whether you win a million dollars.

5. There's a banker. He calls to make you a deal. Really, there is a small phone on a podium that rings, and red lights flash around the room and everyone gets quiet. Then Howie has a little chat with him and relays the message. Please give the a small break. The feigned melodrama is suffocating me.

6. Howie's an idiot.

7. In fact, the entire show, the host, the women, the audience, the concept - the entire thing is idiotic. So, too, then am I for sitting in front of the television, laughing out loud at the high-strung idiosyncrasies of the lovable contestant, my heart quickening with each decision.

When I first saw parts of the show and ads for it, I asked myself - are we really this ridiculous? Will this really show really be a hit? Have we all lost our ever-loving minds? Apparently, the answer to all three is yes.

a life without cereal

A couple weeks ago, I tried on a couple pairs of work pants that I wore religiously last year, but that have been taking a hiatus as now my daily work attire consists mainly of housepants. I could barely button them. Once on, my butt looked like a sausage ready to bust from its casing, and I was close to playing "cover the button" when I sat down.

Whoops. So it looks like my suspicions were confirmed: I'd put on a couple pounds. Maybe it was the Port Royals and endless corn tortillas of Honduras or the working from home where my desk was within reach of the refrigerator. Either way, I was faced with the reality that either I slim down a bit or, assuming I ever get an office job, I buy all new pants. And considering the mounting bills, the latter really isn't an option.

Enter the South Beach Diet. I know, I know. I don't really like it either. I agree that it really isn't healthy to deprive yourself of certain healthy foods, and the rapid rate of weight loss can be alarming. I did it a couple years ago, and I think I lost some eight pounds in the two week ball-busting carb-free hell of Phase One. In all, I got down to what I now see was a completely unreasonable and unhealthy weight for me, but I thrived on the "you look so skinny" comments and had become completely obsessed with being thin.

At one point when I was home for Christmas, my friend pulled out a scale, brought it into her living room and made me stand on it. She said if I didn't reach a certain weight, we were going to have words, and I barely scraped by. Sadly, I was excited that my friends thought I was too skinny.

But the more level-headed Sara knows that balanced eating, regular exercise and moderation are really the best way to lose weight and stay healthy. (Plus, I am once again affirmed that my sensitive digestive track just can't handle the brutal completely-carbless diet.)

I think nearly every woman has some kind of body image issues or insecurities, whether it be for her weight or breast size or complexion - you name it. I was always a chubby kid growing up and I watched my mother struggle with her weight. I was convinced being fat was in my genes, so I have obsessed with keeping one step ahead of the inevitable. More and more, however, I am beginning to think maybe it was my poor eating habits that brought on the chub, and I am not entirely doomed.

Either way, I recognize I have a somewhat warped image. I still look in the mirror and see someone who could stand to lose some weight, and I imagine my friends would describe me as their tall, kind of chubby friend Sara.

Woah this is getting deep. What I am trying to get at is that in the end, I have to find a way to love the body I am given and all that self acceptance crap.

In the meantime, I gotta fit into my damn pants. And, I am not prepared to go up a size or tip past that certain weight on the scale. So I did the South Beach Diet. I got through most of the first two weeks, stopping two days early out of boredom with eggs, a longing for fiber-rich cereal and a digestive track in confused knots. I had also noticed my energy level was down, but the decreasing numbers on the scale kept me going. In all, I think I lost maybe four or five pounds (not as much as last time, but I think I drank a lot more beer this time, a luxury I am not prepared to give up), and I just slid comfortably back into my Editor pants.

This morning, I had the most delicious bowl of Cheerios ever, topped with a half of a banana. I also decided that although the diet probably fueled some of my weight issues and that life is too short to not eat cereal, it did the trick and got me back on track to being healthy and into my pants.

Can't a girl just buy some Claritin?

Last time I went into CVS to buy allergy medication, I was carded and asked to fill out my information and sign form in a three-ring binder. Apparently, to buy pseudophedrine these days, you have to submit to everything short of a retinal scan.

So, I went in today fully expecting to be fingerprinted, body searched and photographed, but they asked for nothing. I asked the clerk why two weeks ago, I held up the always-long check-out line to manually fill out a bunch of information that was already in their computer since they track my every move via my CVS card, information that no doubt nary a soul would look at again. He said something about how CVS was overly-aggressive and now they have scaled back since they just have to phase in the procedures.

I understand all of this is to deter methanphetamine makers from, well, making meth. But do you really think anything CVS or other pharmacies do to limit pseudophedrine purchases is going to stop users from using and makers from mixing up the toxic chemicals in their apartment labs?

As one clerk at said CVS pointed out, they'll just find new ingredients to make it, like NyQuil. Meth already has some pretty f-ed up ingredients like battery acid and lye, and my guess is if the wanted to bad enough, they could find a way to make it without Sudafed. They probably already have.

Also, how will me manually writing down my information help, besides making a headache to buy allergy meds (thanks, especially to the 3.6 grams daily limit, meaning those of us who want to buy a month's worth of Claritin can't) and making more work for the already under-appreciated pharmacy clerks.

I'm just saying there has to be a better way, whether it be to track who is buying what, or to go after a different source that's supplying these ingredients. Or better yet, don't wait that long. Perhaps we should be addressing the problem before kids try to clear the shelves of Sudafed.

It seems like yet another drug issue that the U.S. is missing the boat on. The other that really irks me is how view marijuana use. Despite studies across the world that prove otherwise, the American government last month once again declared that pot has no medical use in treatment. This statement even goes against what our own scientists have declared (and the government has done, up until 10 or 15 years ago) and how it has been used for hundreds of years.

One obstacle to the acceptance for medical use was it was - and is - also used recreationally, and with that comes this image of the hippie pot smoker loser and this hog wash about it being a gateway drug and if you use it your life will go to shit. Use is different from abuse with anything, and it's a shame that this is overriding research into (and legality for) medical benefits. It's a misguided effort, especially considering the rates of alcohol abuse and even cigarettes, both of which are legal and arguably way more harmful. Perhaps that's a soap box for another day.

so much to do...

I stumbled upon this blog today that runs people's to-do lists, from real daily activities to goals to "Why My Parents Are Hypocrites." In a voyeuristic way, it's kind of like the blog Post Secret, which always seems to bring a lump to my throat when I read it.

Anyway, as a person who loves lists and makes several each day - from things to do to potential careers to resolutions - I was intrigued. It got me thinking of a list I made recently, which I titled "Things to do before I die, but preferably sooner."

Problem is, in all my moves recently, I think I've lost the list or it's packed away somewhere. In an effort to recreate it, here are a few I remember off the top of my head. (I recognize that by putting these items here now I am opening myself up for feelings of failure if for some reason I check back here in years to come to see just what I have or have not fulfilled. Either way, here they are and feel free to comment some of yours, which of course I might have to add to mine.)

- Become fluent in another language. I have since amended this one to Spanish fluency (for a while it was Czech), and it's an item I am trying hard on, and getting pretty close to. At least right now I consider myself conversational (best in conversations with 6-year-olds and other Spanish language students.)

- Write a book. This is a big one for me, something I have wanted to do since I was a kid. I got thinking about this recently when I read some woman's blog that she chose to shut down, claiming the writing there was keeping her from putting her words toward a novel. I wonder...

- Travel the world. I am also working on this one, and the list of places I want to go just keeps growing.

- Get a story published in The New York Times. I have made zero progress on this one.

- Run a marathon. This one haunts me. I have no idea why I want to do it, and no matter how hard I try, I am a terrible runner. Again, no progress here.

That's all of the major ones I can think of now, although I am sure I'll remember a few once I post this. I didn't include some doozies like having babies or the smaller ones like learning how to knit (which I got pretty close to, then I got frustrated and gave up. Perhaps I'll get back to that sometimes soon...)

I'm hoping for some input on this one....

According to The Economist's survey this week on the new media, blogs are a conversation. They are interactive. Teenagers (... and some of my adult friends now that I think of it) are using them to chat with each other and make plans, rather than using email or IM, and newspapers should be using them to allow their readers to interact with reporters, editors and each other (more on that later).

So with that in mind - and assuming I have at least a couple readers (as evidenced by comments from Daddy Yankee and Bo Bice, which I particularly enjoy) - I'd like to solicit input. I considered sending an email out to my friends, but considering this blog is called "it's better than a mass email," this might be the best forum.

I am looking for music suggestions. Since discovering the ease and excitement of music downloads, I need some new music. Plus, I like to send out year-end best-of CDs and so far, all I've got so far is Reggaeton and Bachata and I am not sure I want to do an all Latin music best of. So what are you listening to? (I realize this blog has never been a spot for tons of comments and interaction, but I thought I'd give this a try....)

The survey also got me thinking about the state of affairs in the newspaper business, and despite some of the discouraging outlooks both in The Economist stories as well as pretty much every where you read about newspapers, I don't think it's dire. One person predicted that the last newspaper would be read and recycled in 2040 (which I don't fully buy), but that doesn't mean the industry will be dead. Maybe newspapers as we know them - printed each night on newsprint so it arrives when we wake up - but assuming they get their act together, chances are they will be around for a while to come.

The average profit margin for the largest papers is around 20 percent, compared with some 7 or 8 percent for most Fortune 500 companies. So they are making money, and just need to rebuild the industry. Enter the opportunity for interaction with readers through the Web sites - and perhaps eventually putting content only online - and taking advantage of online ad dollars, which I understand many papers aren't doing.

It seems to be a stubborn industry, hesitant to embrace or even research the changing media world around them. Many reporters fear bloggers will take away their jobs (while bringing down the standard of journalism with lack of credentials or editing), but rather than working with the changes, they are largely rejecting it and will soon find themselves getting left behind. What papers seem to have going for them is a trusted name and a reputation, and if they bring this into the current climate, I think they can continue to present news and analysis in the new media world.

Maybe I am trying to be optimistic as I continue to look for a job in this damn media industry, and I don't want to think the money I spent on grad school was wasted....

I'd vote for Chris

Confession time: I watched American Idol last night and liked it.

I haven't watched the show since they crowned Kelly Clarkson, who by the way did go on to produce a handful of undeniably good hits. Act like you don't turn "Since U Been Gone" up and sing along when you hear it. I have had to pretend that her progressive thinness and blondness has not directly correlated to her increased fame. I just can't help but like her and all that love-who-you-are independent woman stuff she touted. In fact, I think I need to download a few of her songs right now....

The next season didn't do much for me, although I guess I should have been supporting Reuben who hails from the 205. My hometown had Reuben Fever - my family included - but I guess there is always some element of surprise and obligatory support when someone from Alabama hits fame outside of football. (Rumor has it another Bama boy got pretty far on Idol? Oh, and I just discovered that a dude from this season was born in the 'Ham. Dang, who knew?)

Anyway, I got bored with American Idol and the hype it produced. Mainly I was disgusted by how they paraded obviously bad singers in front of the cameras to draw in viewers (i.e. William Hung - and didn't he get astronomically albeit temporarily famous for his horrible rendition of some Ricky Martin song?) Plus, I didn't care about the dynamic between Paula Abdul and Simon Cowell. I feel like just admitting that Simon is a nasty, hateful human being just fuels the argument that his schtick sells. It does. He's usually right and his delivery makes people love to hate him.

And even though I try to avoid Fox and everything it stands for - have you noticed all their shows come with a "viewer discretion advised"? - I was hooked on Idol last night. I found myself talking back at the judges - at one point Paula cried and Simon got cut off by the theme music - and deciding which singer I would vote for. With the talent, or lack thereof (um, that blond Southern girl who struggled through her love song last night? Ouch.), the drama of the judges, the catchy theme music - I can see why so many millions of people watch it each week. I must say I hope my interest in the show is fleeting, but I had to admit it was entertaining.

bloody hand and bland cookies

I got shot in my dream last night. This isn't the first time I've dreamed of being shot - in fact, as a cops reporter, I had pretty disturbing dreams - but it always kind of shakes me up.

I watched a fairly violent movie last night with lots of murder and mayhem, so I guess I went to sleep with gun violence on the brain. In my dream I was being chased through an abandoned house with my (not real life) grandmother and grandfather in tow. Finally one guy catches up to us and he kindly gives me a chance to make a case for why he shouldn't kill us. I started on some teary rant that clearly didn't convince him, and he shot me twice in the hand. The hand. Why the hand? I remember feeling a sharp burning in my hand as I slept, and I look down at the bloody mess and wondered how it was that my fingers were all still intact.

Then I recall screaming out, "No! I'm a writer! I'm a writer!" As in, how dare he shoot me there? Like the shooter has just ruined my life by choosing my hand as the target. It felt so dire in the dream and now it just feels ridiculous.

Lest you all think I am just wasting my days watching movies and experimenting with blog layout, I'll have you know I have been a busy woman. I've even been dabbling in a new hobby: cooking. Yesterday I made whole wheat tortillas from scratch, which were surprisingly good, and today's exploit is low-calorie oatmeal cookies, which taste unsurprisingly not good. I substituted the butter for applesauce and the recipe called for a suspiciously small amount of sugar - and the taste corresponds: kind of bland, gummy and appley.

But the important part of this is that I baked. That's right, I used the oven. It didn't explode, no hair was singed, and I didn't have a come-apart. I think I am officially over my oven phobia. That and healthy cookies.

bathing regimen experiment continued

[Editor's note, Part 2: I'm back to the original layout. Sure, I'm indecisive, but I also don't think I liked the white space and large font of the last template. That's for those of you who are following my layout changes....]

Now back to more important things. Like shower regimen. Last fall I began something of an experiment that required me to temporarily abandon my trusty bar soap in the shower for a host of gels and washes and loofahs. After a couple weeks, I was convinced all those nonsense girlie products were actually there for a reason.

Then I traveled with nary a loofah or scrub and have since gone back to my old ways. Though I fully recognize that seemingly superfluous shower products certain serve their purpose in the daily regimen, I have found that the real key is lotion. Without that, we are nothing. OK that might be overstating it, but regardless of how I clean my body, lotion has been the trusty standby to guarantee nice-feeling skin.

But the real focus this time is on shaving. I have always been a fan of the cheap yet trusty pink razors that come a dozen to a $5-pack, but on a whim I thought I'd try out a couple new brands. Really, I thought I would upgrade to Noxema brand razors, and since they had fat plastic handles, more blades than you can count, and came only three to a pack, I thought they would be quality. Plus, they weren't as expensive as the $8 fancy-pants brands, so they seemed reasonable.

I was sadly mistaken. I gave them a try for a couple weeks and was disappointed each time. They plain didn't work. Noxema should stick to making just face wash. So I decided to abandon the upgrade attempt and picked up a 99 cent two-razor pack of Schick from the travel size bin at CVS. As it turns out, these were better than anything I have used - which I suppose isn't too surprising considering this is what Schick does, but these were no Quattro Xtreme Razor 2000 or anything.

Usually you get what you pay for, but not in this case. My guess is, I'll eventually go back to the reliable Daisy razors (unless I decide to continue the tests and reach for the high-end ones or even men's razors?)... I mean, if it ain't broke....

overestimating how much it really matters

As it turns out, all of the things we think will make us massively happy or pitifully sad or otherwise affect us profoundly are simply not a big deal.

See, upon recommendation from a friend, I recently read a story that ran in the NY Times magazine a few years ago called "The Futile Pursuit of Happiness." It's about a few scientists who have been studying how we anticipate the affect a certain event will have on our happiness. They call it affect forecasting.

As the author explains it, we overestimate the intensity and duration of our emotional reactions to future events. We think a certain event, buying a new house, for example, will make us much happier for much longer. Similarly, we expect other events, such as losing a job or even a death in the family, to make us deeply sad for a very long time. Well, according to these guys, we're wrong.

I understand it has to do with adaptation. We tend to acclimate quickly to our situations so that the moments we thought would be much more intense soon become background noise.

This idea isn't particularly new to me, considering the last couple of years have brought a slew of large changes in my life, all of which now seem like no big deal (or at least not the end of the world, as I would have led you to believe at the time). I figured my ease with dealing with certain events came from me being a generally positive person who enjoys being happy enough to seek out positive aspects of situations. But perhaps a larger part of that is adaptation.

The catch is we keep doing it. Even the scientists discussed how they knew they were overestimating the future reaction, but they continued to do it. We continue to overshoot our expectations, putting way too much weight on how we think a certain thing or event will affect us.

My point is that even though we know this - I know this and recognized it as I read about it and similarly recognized how in the end, the affect is much more muted than expected - we still get worked up.

I am still losing sleep over getting a job and moving to a different city. I want the perfect job and think I will just be crushed if I don't get it. I will certainly be miserable if I don't move to an awesome city. And while the truth is that it likely won't be that big of a deal, I still sweat it.

How do we avoid that? Well, one of the researchers noted that he didn't want to.

If he could wave a wand tomorrow and eliminate all affective-forecasting errors, I ask, would he? ''The benefits of not making this error would seem to be that you get a little more happiness,'' he says. ''When choosing between two jobs, you wouldn't sweat as much because you'd say: 'You know, I'll be happy in both. I'll adapt to either circumstance pretty well, so there's no use in killing myself for the next week.' But maybe our caricatures of the future -- these overinflated assessments of how good or bad things will be -- maybe it's these illusory assessments that keep us moving in one direction over the other. Maybe we don't want a society of people who shrug and say, 'It won't really make a difference.'

"Buy It"

[Editor's note: As you can see, I changed the format here. Please feel free to weight in on the new look.]

I just made my first legal music download.

I know, I know. I am decades behind everyone else with their iTunes and Rhapsody and whatnot. I admit - I had been downloading music illegally for a while (and truth be told, if I really liked the artist, I'd go to a music store - physical or online - and by the CD.) But that route was often limiting, and well, illegal.

But now I joined my brethren in the 21st century. I had been nervous about the whole process, mainly because I just don't fully understand it. Questions like whether I can burn the songs on a CD or email them to a friend or put them on my mp3 player or another computer daunted me, and I can't say they are fully answered. I was also unsure which music service to use and how they were different, and frankly, researching the topic just seemed boring and confusing to me.

Now I am finding it's just too easy. My credit card information is saved, and all I have to do is find the song or artist and click the "Buy It" button. Then the song miraculously appears in my jukebox and then neatly organized by artist in my music folder. This could be dangerous. My first downloads were a song from randomly obscure Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark (it came on recommendation) and the awesomely ubiquitous Sean Paul. I am poised to make more purchases.

In other news, I finally mustered up the motivation to send my resume and clips to two places. I am not massively overexcited about either of them, but they are the gateway applications - kind of like the gateway purchase. When you are shopping, you sometimes have to just buy something small off the bat to get the spending rolling. After that first purchase, it somehow becomes easier to find what you are looking for and lay down the cash for what you need.

So now, I am hoping that will just set off a firestorm of available jobs and a deluge of motivation on my part. We'll see.

sample cover letter

Date

Name
Company
Address

Dear Mr./Ms. Somebody-or-other:

Unless I drop someone's name right off the bat in this letter, my guess is you'll just scan it, maybe looking for some key words or worse, egregious errors, before moving on to judge my resume. I'd be surprised if you made it all the way through even then, and because of this, I will cut to the chase.

I want you to hire me. The job looks pretty cool, the work not too hard, and the location doesn't entirely suck. I'd be good for the company: I'm kind of funny, I like to laugh, I get along with people for the most part, I don't lie or fabricate sources.

I could also insert here stock words like hard-working, creative and aggressive, but considering you are just scanning, I could also insert such nonsensical phrases as flux capacitor and butter bean ice cream head and it wouldn't make much difference. Most of your judgments will be made with a glance at my resume, taking into account number of years experience and where I last worked.

They tell us the cover letter allows us to give more detail to some things mentioned on your resume, but I find it hard to believe. I hate writing these letters; they stress me out and I never feel like they are clever or eye-catching enough. And I wonder how much you pay attention to them anyway, except to shake your head at how cheesy it is or maybe pass it on to a coworker to laugh at it. Plus, I may suck at cover letters (and some have even told me I am weak on paper), but give me an interview and you will be ready to sign me on, I promise.

Anyway, please hire me.

Kind regards,

Sara

updating my profile for the high school directory

After receiving two notices in the mail from my high school urging me to call an 800 number and update my profile, I finally called.

I wasn't sure what they wanted. It's not long until reunion time, so maybe that's it? Although, in a tiny private school with 35 kids in my graduating class, no football team, no prom and certainly no committee to arrange such post-school activities, I am not sure the school'd be hosting a reunion. (Plus, why an 800 number? What about the Internet, folks?)

So I called the 800 number, armed with a short list of lies of my career successes, which of course I had no intention of using. After getting off the phone with the woman, I thought perhaps I should have lied:

No, I don't have a permanent address right now... No, see, I just moved, and will be moving again... Er, uh sure keep my dad's address. ... Why yes, I have earned a degree since finishing high school. Two actually. Thank you, yes, thanks. Well, yes they are both in journalism, but one's a masters.... ? Yes, just graduated... well, really I graduated nine months ago... Um, well, no I don't really have an employer. Yes, two degrees. No job. That's right. You can put freelance writer on there, but there's no address to include. That's right. No, no husband or kids either....

No thanks, I don't think I will be ordering the $75 collector's edition directory then.

Couple that experience with the reality that the grace period for grad school loans is almost up. Nine months. Soon I begin the monthly payments. I knew it would happen, but as I was filling out the forms and seeing all those numbers with dollar signs next to them, it still kind of felt like fake money. I just got to go to back to school and not pay as much and how cool is that? "It's an investment in your future," my father told me, and sure that made sense in a nebulous, worry-about-it-later, character-building kind of way. Oh crap, now I have to pay that back.

****

Is it just a coincidence that reggaeton is all over the radio these days? Was it there before, and I didn't notice it until after I spent two months completely submerged it in? Is it kind of like when you learn a new word and then hear people use it all the time after that?

Either way, it's everywhere and I am not complaining. I know, some of my friends who have spent time in South America reject the fast paced Latin dance music, and others I know have a negative association with it, as it is connected to an often exclusive culture in the states. But I welcome it with open arms. It brings me back to the cobblestone streets and musty strobe-lighted discotec of Copan.

Today show, Schmoday show

I had a dream last night where I was in high school (but still at my current age) and Katie Couric was a lunch lady. She leaned over the food line to gossip with me, which of my friends are married and where I got my cute outfit.

I guess I had Couric on the brain with the news of her leaving the Today show and heading over to CBS. Here are my thoughts on the topic, pretty much in chronological order.

1. Really? The bubbly anchor - who before 8 a.m. plays pretend anchor but as the morning progresses get more and more giggley as the segments get more ridiculous - is going back to news?

2. This woman, who let it be known I do like, but not for her newshound edge, is going to be taking over the anchor chair at the network of Edward R. Murrow and Walter Cronkite?

3. That annoying bitch from the view and Who Wants to be a Millionaire is taking her spot? (One blog questioned if people would be able to take her seriously as a news anchor if she keeps her Millionaire post too. Once again, people, the Today show is hardly a news program.)

4. Hmmm... maybe Couric's got it in her. When she's not talking about herself or digressing or interrupting guests, she does seem to have a sharp interview style. Before the Today show, she had strong news experience and when she does do real interviews, they aren't so bad. And as this NPR commentary points out, having a woman in the anchor spot - particularly one as warm and real as Couric - might not be such a bad thing. Do we really need an old man with a deep voice to feel like we are getting authoritative news?

5. The Today show is total crap (though in the interest of full disclosure I watch it while I eat my cereal and particularly enjoy the fitness and fashion segments), I don't watch network TV news, Couric is and will continue to get paid mindblowing amounts of money, and in the end who really cares?

my dad's a happy man

So my brother just got a job. On Wall Street. With full benefits, dental, year-end bonuses and a fat salary (although he assures me it isn't the snort-coke-off-hookers kind of salary).

This is significant because this is a man who has always shunned corporate life, much to the dismay of our father. I remember he had a job a few years back where he went to an office all day and did work and had a assignments and a boss and steady paychecks, and each time he talked about it, the veins in his neck would bulge and he'd break out in hives.

He's never been one for authority (think long-haired rocker in high school loathed by the headmaster and adored by the chicks), and to him having a full-time job was just a contract to waste away at a desk chair and emotionally beaten to a faceless pulp by society.

But don't go thinking he's some kind of unemployed vagabond. Since college, he's done just fine by himself freelancing. He even managed to go back to school for a master's degree in a massively complex and cutting edge futuristic computer science . (That is perhaps for another post, but said foray into academia just showed that this is one of the smartest, most creative thinking people I know. Stop with the awwwws.)

Nope, he's done fine, but with each passing day that he didn't have a full time job or health insurance, my father lost another fine gray hair from his poor head. See, my brother always said that every family has one - the uncle or brother or sister or cousin who bucks the tradition, breaks the family line of doctors or lawyers or whatever it might be, to forge a new path of (euphemism here) creativity.... (I don't fully agree about his assessment, particularly the part where he compared himself to our uncle who really was that one in the family... again, perhaps for another post).

For my father, a doctor from a line of doctors, this idea of setting off on a wayward path always made him a bit nervous. Although he has always been unflinchingly supportive of us and everything we do (never once a hint that we should consider being doctors), I think he was always waiting for brother to get a life. Nevermind that he had one in which he was perfectly happy and successful, it didn't fit the mold. And more importantly it didn't involve health insurance.

(And perhaps the fact that I went the traditional route right out of college, landing a job that although it paid pennies and offered only minimal health coverage, did provide some kind of stability... until I got laid off along with the entire editorial staff... just exacerbated the pressures on my brother to get a stable job. Oh how the tables have turned.)

Well now everything has changed. My father is giddy with excitement that my brother has a "real" job with a salary and a 401K and health benefits. It's similar to last year when both his children were in school earning their respective masters degrees. For a man devoted to advanced education, this was a dream come true. Now, he's won the lottery. And so now I just need to get on it and find myself a job too.

spokesman comments or lack thereof

The federal government is trying to find a way to move from the 50-some-odd-year-old system of paying employees to one based on an employee's performance. Rather than award workers for how many years they have put in at a federal agency, they are looking to award them based on how well they actually do at their jobs.

That makes sense to me, but considering this is the federal government we are talking about and evaluating employee performance requires more work, it could be some time before the old system is changed.

As I am reporting on a related story, I am faced with the quintessential example of why paying for performance is a good idea: the government agency press office. Since my first days of reporting on the federal government, I have come to see the agency press office as the bane of my reporter existence. When I call, I can picture them sitting around an office, gossiping, doing their nails, emailing, drinking coffee. When the phone rings, one of them rolls her eyes and takes a deep breath, mustering up the proper amount of miserableness and I-don't-give-a-shit attitude.

I called one agency press office today, asking for them to help put me in touch with some big dude and knowing if I didn't start with them, I'd be shut down immediately. With her rudest tone of voice, the half-listening woman on the other end basically acted like she could care less why I was calling, as if I had rung the wrong office and why would she be the one to help me. She starts to transfer to me some unknown office in the bowels of the agency, but I stop her, explaining that I will only be transferred back to her since I am a reporter. She then cuts me off mid-sentence and transfers me to some random voice mail where I would no doubt be ignored again.

This seems to happen every once in a while, really with any press office where I don't directly know the contact there. It's infuriating and frustrating, and often there are few other options. I wonder how many of these press people would be around if their job performance was evaluated. Or how their performance would change were it to be linked to their pay.

Surprisingly, I did get a call back not too long after I left the message. But perhaps unsurprisingly, the spokesperson pulled out the classic we-have-no-further-comment comments. The person you really want to talk won't comment, but sure I'll answer your questions, she tells me. As I start to ask them and get more and more in-depth, bringing out a few follow-ups to her statements, she continues to answer with about four stock phrases, regardless of the question. I could ask her what she had for breakfast, and her response would be "As I mentioned before, the agency chose to blah blah yadda yadda yadda."

Now, I understand there are answers you want that you just aren't going to get, especially if the story has a tinge of controversy or agency fault. But part of me wants the spokesperson to own up to that. It's not like I don't recognize that each answer sounds strangely similar to the last, and in fact that time it had nothing to do with the question at all. Would it kill you to just say, You know Sara, I have about three things I am authorized to say, so you can probe until you are blue in the face, but you ain't getting anything else out of me. In not so many words, I once had a spokesman say that to me, and for a second I felt like we were both humans stuck in a tough position on two sides of the story fence.

Nintendo fingers

What does one do on a cloudy weekend afternoon in the New York capital region? You go to Mallbany, of course. Many know this town as Albany, but considering there is little else to do there and no other need for us to visit than for a mall, it has been dubbed Mallbany.

Well, this recent trip to Mallbany was unique, as I discovered the funnest video game ever known to man, although I am not sure that statement comes with much weight from a person who is not all that into videogames. The game is Guitar Hero, and we got sucked into it at Best Buy, where they had set up the game and the two guitar-shaped controllers.

It's like Dance Dance Revolution, I guess, but perhaps easier and less physically demanding - although one should beware of Nintendo fingers, the ache and tightening in your fingers after prolonged video game playing. I am embarrassed to say, I walked away from the massive flat screen TV and mini guitar with said cramps.

The game was worth it. As a green mohawked British rocker, I wailed on the wawa bar and waved the guitar in the air to "Appetite for Destruction" and "I Want to Be Sedated." The more I rocked out, shaking the guitar and breaking a considerable sweat, the more points I got, and I do believe I was rewarded for also singing along and karate kicking the air. All too quickly, we forgot we were standing in the isle at Best Buy while pre-teen boys watched our rocker personas take over.

The game was so good, we went back a second day. Quit judging.

"One foot in the grave and one on a banana peel"

It's surprising how quickly the days pass even though I don't have a job. It makes me wonder, when I did work and when I eventually work again, how I ever got anything done.

I realized over the weekend that I am in fact no longer a spring chicken. This is a realization that I seem to be having more and more frequently, but now it's gone beyond finding - and pulling mercilessly - unwanted wirey white hairs from my head.

I can see many of you rolling your eyes, but bear with me. This weekend I was again struck that I am getting older when my friends and I drank too much rum and then basically spent the entire next day in bed recovering. I guess we don't bounce back like we used to. Then the realization resurfaced as our conversations tended at times toward wrinkles, home-buying and wedding and baby showers. Ahem. Choke.

Well, then in a context entirely unrelated (or least not intentionally), we got to talking about death. As my friend was discussing her thesis (not to be divulged or really butchered by my ignorance on these pages), we began discussing just what you should do, or perhaps what your loved ones should do, with your body once you die. I always thought cremation was a reasonable plan, considering it's a total waste of space to bury bodies in the ground, we are running out of space, and I loathe cemeteries and don't want people to associate my life with such wastelands.

But then, apparently cremation is bad for the environment, and something like a third of mercury emissions are from burning our dental fixtures in the cremation process. And my brother once explained something about how burning bodies sucks energy from the atmosphere and creates more negative energy or something like that that skimmed somewhere just over my head.

Enter promession. Developed by a Swedish biologist, apparently it's a method of environmentally ethical body decomposition that involves freeze drying the body in liquid nitrogen, reducing it to a fine powder, removing all the artificial bits and then burying it in some kind of biodegradable casket. The idea is then the body will naturally become part of the earth, providing the proper nutrients for plant growth. I don't know much about it - in fact those last sentences were the extent of it. But so far it sounds like a more reasonable alternative to burial, which seems antiquated and unreasonable, and cremation. I understand it's still being developed, and from what I can see, it's slow to make waves in the U.S., but count me as a believer.

Which kind of brings me to the question: Should I have a living will? Morbid, I know, but I wonder when one is supposed to deal with such matters. I don't have any possessions to speak of, but should it be written somewhere who is in charge of my body and what I want done with it?

On a much lighter note, after much frustration on the job search front, I decided to dedicate some time each day to practicing Spanish. To this end, I went to the bookstore and bought a colorful children's book that I could read and translate. It's called El Capitan Calzoncillos. Already, I didn't know that last word, but bought it anyway, only to discover calzoncillos means underwear. I am reading a book called "Capitan Underwear and the perverse plan of Professor Pipicaca." I don't think Pipicaca translates, or perhaps it translates quite clearly. So that partially explains the cartoon picture on the cover of a bald, pink child wearing nothing but tighty whities and a red cape. Awesome.

Oh, and the title of this post is a quote I heard on NPR this weekend that seemed somehow fitting, or at least funny enough to share. It's from a Southern woman talking about the only circumstance in which it was acceptable for one to miss church: if you'vr got one foot in the grave and one on a banana peel.

more time-wasting career path debates as I struggle to get motivated to find a job

I just realized I haven't written anything all week. Maybe that's because very little that is noteworthy has happened to me this week. Nonetheless, here are some mindless ramblings:

On the job front, I did send out emails to two newspaper editors, and heard back from one who said there may be an opening in a month or so, but don't wait for it, because it might not happen, but if it does it would require me to use my brand spanking new Spanish speaking skills. I am not sure if that is promising or not. Plus, said newspaper is in my hometown, which brings me to question whether I could move back to a place I shunned and ran far, far away from the second I graduated high school. It's debateable. I always said I would never move back there. But, as I get older, I realize more and more that the town doesn't suck. In fact, there seem to be more young people there than I remembered from growing up, and something that in the right light mildly resembles a night life. I suppose I will take up this debate in full force if this position actually opens up. I guess in the meantime, I should be looking for work at more than two places.

I have also managed to articulate my immediate future into two potential paths:

Path A: Move to a random city - scratch that, tiny, one-horse town - somewhere in the country to get a job at a newspaper, likely covering the night cops beat or writing up the latest news from the town council hearings. The stories might be bird cage liner, but hey, I'd be cutting my teeth at a daily newspaper, earning journalistic credibility, proving my abilities to handle the rigors of daily deadlines. And there's always the chance that I'd hit the story of the year, like how the town commissioner is embezzleing money from the library fund to pay for underage gay prostitutes. Or something. My point is, Plan A means choosing job over location, and remember I did just drop a boatload of cash to go back to get a master's degree in hopes that I'd be better equipped for a daily.

Plan B: Scrap the newspaper deal and find a writing job in the city of my choice, preferably one where I have friends or the promise to make some. In this scenario, I have given up on the idea of earning stripes as a newspaperman and decided it's important to report and write regardless of the venue. I mean, who really reads newspapers anyway (besides my fellow J-school grads)? Aren't they a dying breed anyhow, and aren't most papers laying off reporters? And isn't now more feasable now to get good journalistic cred through online publications or magazines, rather than the traditional daily paper route? Plus, wouldn't it be nice to be paid more than mere peanuts? I mean, writing is writing is writing. Right?

I think this is a debate that I have bothered you with on this blog before, and now I'm doing it all over again. Part of me thinks I will continue to question this throughout my career, but I hope to at least settle on some kind of a choice soon so I can shut up and get a damn job.

In other less self-absorbed news, a man who owned a restaurant down the street from my father's house was found this week lying dead in the kitchen shot in the head. I know this happens every day all over the country, but I can't stop thinking about it, mainly because of the proximity to my family and the connections he and his family have throughout the neighborhood. It really is shocking.

tax time

I finally did my taxes this weekend and learned what I feared, but thought might be the case. I owe the federal government $2,000.

No, that's not a typo and as far as I know we didn't make any mistakes. That's two thousand dollars. What that is, friends, is highway robbery.

OK, that's not true. It's just how it is. See, I knew all year as I freelanced that I should be setting aside money for taxes, but I didn't. Instead I went to Central America for two months. And this morning I wrote two checks, one to the feds and one to the state, for nearly $2,000. Now the balance in my checking account is uncomfortably low and my savings account is nonexistent.

I realize around this time of year that my case is far from unusual. But as a friend of mine suffering similar financial woes put it, we had already mentally spent the little money we had. I had already started planning my next trip in a couple months, this time maybe to Mexico?

Instead, I am sitting in front of my computer, wearing all of my clothes and wrapped in a blanket, in the part of the apartment without heat - which is pretty much all of it except for one room closed off to contain the warmth generated from a demonically possessed gas heater. We're eating eggs and beans nearly every meal. I spent the afternoon scheming ways to make money, combing the job sites and subsequently getting disappointed at the prospects, and checking and rechecking my bank balance online just to see if a miracle had happened. Plus, one of my travel buddies is back in Roatan (after a while in Costa Rica), working to become a dive master, drinking endless Port Royals, sitting in hammocks and generally making my sub-freezing, penniless existence in upstate New York pale in comparison.

I can't help but think I am living a version of the time our parents always talked about while we rolled our eyes. Something about living in squalor to follow a dream or struggling to make ends meet on the road to happiness or up hill both ways in the snow and whatnot. Am I going to one day lean back in my chair, my eyes glazed over, and reminisce about these tough times and how we cut corners but built character?

Perhaps I am being a bit melodramatic. In a few days, I am sure the shock will wear off and I'll be borrowing the car to go to Target. In fact, I've already booked a bus ticket to visit friends in New York this weekend.

365 days of this garbage?

Yesterday was this blog's one year anniversary. Or would you call it a first birthday? I'm not sure, and to tell you the truth, I am not sure that means a thing, except perhaps just that I have been sharing my mindless drivel with the online world - that is, all three readers to stop by here - for a full year. Again, am I proud or embarrassed? Anyway, I thought at least it should just be pointed out. Cheers to "it's better than a mass email".

Also of note is my recent realization of how much I have moved around in the last year and a half. Last September I left a cushy job and comfortable life to move alone to Chicago. Then six months later after surviving a Chicago winter, I moved to Prague. After three months there and a long weekend back in my studio apartment in Chicago, I moved to Washington, DC for the summer. September (and graduating) brought me back to Chicago, but to a different tiny studio a stone's throw from my previous one. In January, I left again for two months in Central America, one month of that spent living with a family in Copan Ruinas, only to return knowing I needed to move yet again, this time out of Chicago and to upstate New York. In two months or less, I'll move again to some as of yet undisclosed location. Recounting all of this makes my head spin. I'm exhausted.

A day in the life

It's been a few days since I have written, and after you hear what I have been doing (a typical day's schedule to follow), you will understand my void of any insight, and perhaps wish I hadn't taken the time to write this.

7 a.m. - wake up. Look, I might not have much to do, but that does not equal a cure for insomnia. And I did watch three recorded episodes of The OC last night (I couldn't stop!), and my mind was swimming with the drama that is the lives of Ryan and Marissa, et. al. So I'm up, and I decide to read for a bit, wondering why I fancy myself a writer but have yet to come up with phrases and analogies mere fractions as funny or clever as this author.

8:30 a.m. - cereal and coffee while watching the Today Show. I marvel again at the tragedy that is Anne Curry's hair, and then remember my conversation with my step-mother a couple days ago: Me: What's with Anne Curry's hair? It's looks horrid! Step-mother: She cut it off and gave it to Locks of Love. Me: Oh. Oops. So that's why she's been growing it out so long, which is kind of unheard of when it comes to TV anchor women. Well, I'm an ass. Today, it was on to hard-hitting coverage such as how Al tried (and didn't quite make it) to lose 20 pounds and a mock quiz show featuring a 10-year-old who has already published a book on presidential trivia and plans to run for the slot in 20 years. Hey, I may be an underachiever, but at least I'm not a social outcast.

9:30 - 12:30 p.m. - work, also known as putting in a few calls and emails, and spending the remaining 2 hours and 45 minutes organizing and renaming the 900 photos from our trip while listening to bachata on my computer. For three days I've been trying to pare down and arrange the photos for an online scrapbook, but I've only managed to narrow them down to 450, and it's going to take awhile to do captions for all of those. I also took time - about a half hour - to craft a five-line email in Spanish to my friend. It's getting harder and harder.

12:30 - lunch break. I made grilled turkey and cheese sandwiches, with my new favorite food: avocados.

1:30 - 2 - unexpected nap on chair after reading roughly four and a half pages of aforementioned book.

2:15 - back to work. I come to the decision that this freelance assignment due Friday is just not going to happen, what with my sources not telepathically sensing I need to contact them and thus preemptively calling me with the proper answers, kindly saving me from exerting any minute effort on the story. So I email my editor to tell him I need more time and that so many folks are declining to comment, and just as I hit send, two sources finally call me back. Shit. Now it looks like I'll have to file after all.

4:30 - I realize at this point that I am still in my pajama pants, with no plans to don jeans and leave the house. I also begin to feel my eyeballs drying out from staring at the computer screen tiled with 900 images of me, my friends, tropical trees, horses, sunsets and random strangers who we've coaxed to give the requisite thumbs-up pose for each shot. I think my muscles are also starting to atrophy, so I decide it's time to revisit the gym I just joined. Something tells me it's geared to a more life-seasoned crowd, as it's called Forever Young and has an aerobic class called Silver Sneakers, but I'm not daunted. I can stationary bike next to grandma without hesitation. In fact, upon my arrival, I am surprised at the unexpected amount of 20-something jocks (one in particular who looks like he overstayed his welcome at the Fake n Bake by about 18 hours and smells overwhelmingly of vanilla and something close to bananas).

7 - dinner of enchiladas, another variation on my Central American culinary theme, which I have yet to tire from. While eating, we watch a downloaded copy of 8 Simple Rules, the show that should have gone off the air the second John Ritter died, but instead limps on with only sporadically funny moments overpowered by dead father coping family themes. This particular episode was just weeks after his death, which they wrote into the show, and the daughters grapple with returning to school and struggling with the guilt of feeling an ounce of happiness or normalcy in a time when they should be mourning their father. All of a sudden, as I am sucking down a third enchilada, I am catapulted back to the fall of seventh grade when I returned to school motherless, greeted by oh-poor-you eyes and too-eager smiles from teachers and peers when really I just wanted to pretend it was just another middle school days, and oh my gah I can't believe she wore that, and isn't he so cute, and similar teenage dribble drabble. All of a sudden, I felt a lump in my throat, and it was clearly time to get up and do the dishes. Add that to the list of TV shows that hit too close to home and I can therefore no longer watch.

9 - finally the moment I've been waiting all week for: the newest episode of The OC. I wonder how Marissa will get along now that she and Ryan broke up, and what is happening with Mrs. Cooper-Nickle and Summer's dad?! And of course, I won't miss a chance to hear my BF mockingly quip in a high-pitched and comically timed voice "Biotch!" or "Oh snap!"