it's better than a mass e-mail

NEW BLOG LOCATION

2009-02-20T09:08:00.002-05:00

I have moved my blog and linked it with my Web site, so please visit me at www.saramichael.org.

things to do when you're unemployed

2009-02-17T15:04:00.002-05:00

If I had more readers and this was more than just an exercise in self-absorbtion, I'd ask for suggestions on what people do when their unemployed. Besides job hunting.

How do you find creativity and motivation? How do you continue to feel smart and engaging when you're sitting around your house checking Facebook and ignoring your confused dog who whines and paces for attention?

(Wow, it's not looking good for the Sara Betterment Phase. I even Googled the phrase "What do to when you're unemployed" and a list actually told me half of the things I have been doing already: blogging, cooking, crafts.)

I will say I am surprised at the amount of people at home during the day. It's almost offensive. What are they doing? Are they also out of work? Are they all really collecting disability checks? Seriously, I have seen more of my neighbors today than in the last month. What are the chances they work evening jobs or just have off on Tuesdays?

Well, it's a rocky start to my unemployment. Although I have nailed down a couple freelance gigs and set up an informal interview for a prospective job lead, it seems like the afternoon stretches out in front of me.

I guess I'll go paint my fingernails.

Day One

2009-02-16T07:49:00.003-05:00

This is the first official day of my laid-offdom.

Technically I am on "administrative leave" and will still see a paycheck for a bit, thanks to a 1980s federal law that requires employers to give two months notice before closing a plant. But today was the first work day that I didn't have to get up to go to work.

Yes, it's not even 8 a.m. and I am up, but I blame my eager and consistent dog for that. Or maybe it hasn't really sunk in yet.

I actually have a long list of things to do today, but really these are things that could be done any day this week. I am trying to stay busy. Stay busy and stay positive.

So commence the Sara Betterment Phase, longer title Sara Personal and Professional Better Phase. SBP entails me building my professional skills (Final Cut, Web design, freelancing) and nurturing some personal areas (running again, taking up another hobby such as knitting or more yoga). During this SBP, whether it lasts two weeks or six months (good heavens I don't know if I can handle six months), I will focus on doing things that make me feel good about myself and ultimately make me a better person.

SBP starts, as I am now, by drinking a cup of coffee and writing.

the end of an era

2009-02-15T08:46:00.002-05:00

Sitting on the sidewalk in front of my house this morning was the last edition of the start-up newspaper where I worked for two and a half years.

I never was among the chosen thousands in the area to receive home delivered copies of the paper, on account of not fitting their formula of living near a shopping center, making a certain amount of money and having a specified number of children. But I was so glad to get a "VIP" copy of the last issued, headlined "Goodbye, Baltimore."

The last several days of the paper were tough. Somehow we had to muster up the motivation to write stories for a paper we knew people had likely stopped reading and within days would cease to exist. I went from writing at least two stories a day to writing one every other day to fill the shrinking space. I can't say my best work ran in the final days, but we stuck it out and gave it a good send off.

I realized on Friday night while out drinking and eating soggy fries and wings with soon-to-be former coworkers, that these people gave a shit. They cared. Each one of them - at least the editorial side I knew - poured their hearts and souls into this newspaper. More than working long hours and accepting paltry pay, these people invested themselves deeply into this paper. They were committed to the words that ran under their bylines and dedicated to carving out a spot for this scrappy paper, elbowing in alongside the long-standing legacy giant in town.

We all believed in this experiment and were willing to try a new model when everything else around us in daily news was failing. And yes, perhaps it's hard to say we didn't also fail, that the concept of a free, home delivery paper with short, boldly written stories didn't also fall short. Perhaps if the economy had been different or if some management decisions had been different, perhaps we could have survived a few more years or longer. But we didn't. We tried something new to revive newspapers and nearly three years later, it folded.

I can't tell you I have much insight in the future of newspapers. I am not convinced there isn't money to be made in online only print. Why can't newspaper figure it out, though? Why can't they go all online? The reporters I know aren't afraid of that, and in fact embrace it, as do readers, so what's the hold up? I also think there is something to be said of making the news nonprofit, rather than beholden to wide profit margins and expectant shareholders. News gathering truly is a public service, and a nonprofit model would fit the purpose well.

But I'm not a businessman or a journalism teacher or a pundit. When I graduated from grad school four years ago I wanted to be a staff writer at a major newspaper, and I was. For the last nine months or so I covered health and the environment and thrived in the beat. A big part of me mourns the death of this newspaper and the demise of newspapers as we know them, and I also mourn what appears to be the death of my own run in the newspaper world. This is the second paper from which I have been laid off, and I am not sure I have the stomach to do it again or that there are even the opportunities out there to jump into it again. Instead I have been forced to shift my career trajectory and be fully open to what might be out there. I keep telling myself these skills are transferable, and I hope that is true.

Perhaps the medium, the audience and the subject will change, but I will always write.

me and 11 million other Americans

2009-02-05T10:41:00.002-05:00

Two and a half years ago, I was writing about how I got a sweet new job at a daily newspaper. The job I went back to school for, that I had set my sights on, at least in theory: writing for a major metropolitan daily.

Today, I am among the millions of unemployed. Or at least I will be in a week or so. The paper announced last week that it's folding, throwing in the towel on an experiment to deliver news to some 325,000 people in Maryland for free every day. Shorter stories, catchier headlines, more graphics and boxes and photos. But still hard hitting and engaging news. About three years after the paper was launched, it folded.

But this isn't the paper's obit. That might come later. This is me realizing I am having to rethink my entire career trajectory, regain balance in my life, and I guess write on this damn blog again.

So let's start with a list, one that will bolster the few feelings of relief and open-minded positivity that I have struggled to dredge up among the feelings of sadness, anger, humiliation, guilt and more sadness.

Things I will NOT miss from my job:

1. Cranking out at least two stories a day, whether the topic warranted a full story or not.

2. Story counts to fill a quota, which toward the last days were listed and posted on my editors door, perhaps aimed to stir competition among reporters but only serving to frustrate them.

3. Hearing the phrase, "If you can't handled it, then quit!" yelled at me or my colleagues in the newsroom.

4. Readers writing or calling to say things like, "A high school student could do a better job than you."

5. Waking up in the middle of the night wondering if that name was spelled right, if I did the math correctly in the story, if I misquoted that one source.

6. Looking at the story the next day and finding for all my efforts, the copy desk inserted errors and misspelled the headline.

7. Sitting through mind-numbing government meetings that stretch past 11 p.m.

8. Having PR flacks pitch me stories I have already written. (No kidding, this one happened just yesterday.)

9. Getting paid peanuts to work my ass off.

10. Feeling at the end of the day like I have been kicked in the stomach, tossed in a dryer and squashed by a steamroller.

I'm back?

2007-08-18T08:35:00.000-04:00

I haven't written for more than a year. Except for cranking out at least two stories a day for a newspaper and maybe two diary entries, I haven't taken the time to write and I most certainly haven't revisited my blog.

I stopped for a few reasons. Among them being ultimately consumed by the madness that is a new job where I had to get used to the breakneck pace and overcome the massive exhaustion and stress I left with each day. I also was trying a bit to fit in, I am afraid, and was a bit concerned my mindless online drivel would get discovered and I would be ridiculed. Am I in high school?

I also was feeling like I had nothing to say. That assumes I ever did, but at least when I start this blog, I had a point. Traveling. Hm, now I am pretty much settled. I also never really came to grips with finding a balance between pouring out way too personal information about myself and my friends and then keeping it anonymous enough for people to connect a bit.

From time to time, I would get e-mail updates from the StatCounter program that tells me if anyone has accidentally stumbled upon my site in the last month - usually not - and what brought them there. Nine times out of ten the reader got here by searching phrases like "you know you're in the South when" and "Boons Farm" - two things I apparently wrote about that brought in the most traffic.

Finally, I have been waiting for a point. A theme. A reason to have a damn blog in the first place, and something original and clever and new that would bring in readers - because, c'mon let's be real here, every writer wants to be read. I have been mulling things over, waiting for said theme to come to me and the cleverness to pull me to the computer and enlighten the world.

That never came. Or it hasn't yet. But I do miss the writing. And for now I will tell myself that I don't care if I don't have a point or readers or really anything good or unique to say. I just want to say it. Perhaps a theme will emerge and I can start a new fresh blog with a relevant title and readers will clamor to get to their screens to read me and I will become famous and people will talk about it and send the link around to their friends. Perhaps.

Are you a hobbier?

2006-08-05T14:22:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-28T21:36:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-24T12:31:00.002-04:00

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

2006-07-19T16:10:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-18T09:16:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-13T08:46:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-07-11T11:04:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-06T14:44:00.000-04:00

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"

2006-07-02T08:17:00.000-04:00

... 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

2006-06-26T07:42:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-24T19:40:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-06-15T10:54:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-16T11:23:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-12T15:57:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-10T17:02:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-08T21:04:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-08T09:26:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-05-05T11:37:00.000-04:00

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...

2006-05-02T11:05:00.000-04:00

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....

2006-04-28T11:30:00.000-04:00

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

2006-04-26T09:31:00.000-04:00

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

2006-04-21T11:00:00.000-04:00

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

2006-04-19T09:10:00.000-04:00

[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

2006-04-18T12:32:00.000-04:00

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"

2006-04-16T09:57:00.000-04:00

[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

2006-04-11T13:18:00.000-04:00

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

2006-04-10T12:11:00.000-04:00

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

2006-04-07T09:42:00.000-04:00

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

2006-04-04T20:45:00.000-04:00

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

2006-04-03T12:13:00.000-04:00

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

2006-04-02T19:09:00.000-04:00

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"

2006-03-28T14:24:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-24T17:17:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-20T15:47:00.000-05:00

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?

2006-03-18T15:02:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-16T20:31:00.000-05:00

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!"

looking for the "right" job

2006-03-13T16:29:00.000-05:00

I got an email this morning from a mentor who said she heard I was having a hard time finding the right job. Interesting. This raises two questions: a) who's talking about my job search, and b) is it fair to say I can't find the "right" job, when technically I haven't started looking for any job?

Jobs. Oh, jobs. It took me many months to free myself from the competitive judgmental grasp that was graduate school. The pressure to find the most amazing journalism job in all the land was enough to stifle me into not looking for work at all. So I freelanced. And then I traveled. And how I am back - with hopefully a somewhat clearer mind to determine what it is I want to do for a living and a renewed motivation to dive head-first into the hunt.

The "for a living" part here is key. I think so many people forget that jobs are just that - work. What you do each day to earn a paycheck and contribute to society does not define you as a person. It might sound basic, but I think people tend to overlook that, giving too much weight to occupation and not enough to hobbies, friends, interests....

That said, I fear that it has been so long since I got up in the morning to go to an office, that entering the workforce again is going to be a struggle. I mean, if I work all day, how am I ever going to find the time to listen to Latin music and look at the pictures from our trip for hours on end (which is just what I have been doing for the past three days)? My friend says we should allow ourselves this time to reminisce about the trip, rehashing stories and pine for the tropical adventures. I hope she's right, because right now we can't seem to get enough. No, she doesn't have a job either, which might also contribute to the current state of affairs.

I came home this weekend to surprise my father for his 60th birthday. My step-mother arranged it, and after a week of trying to coordinate the surprise, we have decidedly determined she would be a terrible covert CIA agent. Her whispers into the phone with my dad in the next room and her plans to call my cell phone, let it ring once and hang up to signal they are ready for my grand entrance just didn't come across smoothly. Perhaps the biggest mistake was her asking my dad to lunch on Saturday. She never wants to go out to lunch, much less pay for it, on a weekend day when there is yard work to be done and no doubt days-old leftovers that can be resuscitated into an acceptable meal. My pops was a little suspicious, but when we walked into the BBQ restaurant (that's right, this is the South, after all), the look on his face was priceless.

I'm a big winner

2006-03-09T15:59:00.000-05:00

I have been getting calls for a Mr. or Mrs. Foley for several months now, or sometimes just for Ilene, and each time I tell them they have the wrong number and don't think much of it.

Until today, when apparently I won a giant sweepstakes. After I told the caller that once again he had the wrong number, he said "Look, I am just trying to reach the man or woman of the house with this phone number. It's been entered into a sweepstakes and we have been trying to reach you for a while to claim the prize, which is a new Mercedes Benz or a $1,500 shopping spree."

Me: Right. Okay. Well, I guess I am the woman of the house.

Man on the phone: Great, then you are eligible to collect these prizes. You just have to take down this 800 number and call Mark Foley.

Me: Mark Foley?

Man: Yes, he can arrange for you to collect your prizes.

I know, I know. There is a catch. There is always a catch, but I have to tell you, a significant part of me got a bit excited, and I would be lying if I hadn't already pictured my hair flapping in the wind as I screeched down the street in my new sleek Mercedes, windows rolled down, reggaeton blaring. Oh and all the things I could buy with $1,500..... Shoot, I'll call this Mark guy.

A woman answers the 800 number, saying something about a sweepstakes collection center. I ask for Mark. He's busy, but maybe she can help me. I explain the situation, how I'm not Mrs. Foley but apparently my phone number won and so I'd like to kindly collect on these prizes and by the way, can I choose the color of the car?

Enter the catch. All you have to do is take a 90-minute tour of some suburban Illinois resort and then I will be directly ushered to the garage where my shiny black sports car is waiting with the keys in the ignition.

Instead, tomorrow I will be behind the wheel of a giant boat of a rental car - I am banking on a Cutlass Supreme? - packed high with the last of my belongings, shedding a small tear as I leave this fabulous city of mine.

It's snowing here.

2006-03-05T14:48:00.000-05:00

Really. Snowing. These shenanigans have been going on for hours now. I know what you are thinking: Sara, you live in Chicago. It's still winter there. It snows in Chicago all the ever-loving time.

And yes, the weather would not be that big of a deal if a) I didn't just get back from the freaking island tropics where I was tan and constantly sweaty and b) I didn't have my winter jacket stolen from the bar this weekend. Who, by the way, steals coats? Especially since it's (hopefully) mere weeks until spring breaks, stores have already shipped out their coats and are stocked with sun dresses, and I have absolutely zero dollars in the bank to shell out for a new coat. Curses.

Nerd alert for the day: One of my traveling buddies and I have been emailing back and forth each day in Spanish, each note including four or five new vocab words. Nerdy, we know, but I am hoping this will help us retain the Spanish. Words for today included asombroso (amazing) and pasmoso (awesome). Surprised?

In other news, I am moving from Chicago. I recently came to the realization that it was high time for me to live in the same city as mi amor, so I am moving to be with him. Enough of this crappy long-distance business. And as I am subletting my place, selling my stuff, packing up my clothes and having last nights dancing and last mornings afters eating at Clarks, I am finding that it feels just right.

"Jesus hates peanut butter"

2006-03-02T16:14:00.000-05:00

I just saw this scrawled on the bathroom at the Melrose Restaurant (I know, it took me less than 24 hours to get my ass there.... I love me some sweet and sour cabbage soup....). I thought the phrase was hysterical. And unequivocally wrong. I am sure Jesus loves peanut butter.

I have spent the entire day listening to reggaeton and I only threw the TP in the garbage can a couple times. Yep, I'm settling right back in.

So it's 3 p.m. and I just realized I have no idea what to do with my life. Career-wise, that is. Am I back to asking the annoying journalism questions that have chased me for the last half year: Newspapers or online? Back to magazines? If I forgo newspaper work, have I failed? Why do I feel pressured to get an amazing job which will thus define me as an amazing, successful person? Will I ever be able to find a job?! (OK, I haven't really started looking for a job, but I am sitting at my computer and I have visited Journalismjobs, so that's a start, right?)

Right as I felt the life-changes come-apart sneaking up and I was feeling overwhelmed by the site of my train wreck apartment and utter lack of order, I did what every sane woman does. I made a hair appointment. Joel seems to make everything OK and feeling cute puts everything into perspective.

Bienvenidos a los Estados Unidos

2006-03-01T21:19:00.000-05:00

I'm home. The past few days have been jam-packed with traveling. We left Roatan at about 6 a.m. on Saturday (with four new friends in tow, which I expected to be a huge pain in the ass since we were on a tight time schedule - and I am neurotic - but it actually worked out quite well... The only mishap was that in a sleepy hungover haze, we got into the wrong cab, thinking we were piling into the one we arranged and paid $10 for the day before), and got to Copan in time for the discoteca.

Being back in Copan for the weekend was a nice way to end the trip. Although a few things had changed in just a couple weeks (for example, the school had moved to a new building, and of course, all our teachers had new students), it felt familiar. It was also quite a test of our Spanish skills. We had dinner one night with one of our teachers, and basically flubbed for the first 20 minutes. But by the time we started playing Spanish scrabble with her 6-year-old, we were right back on the Spanish-speaking track, albeit at an elementary level.

Now that I have landed home safe and sound, I can voice a few things I didn't want to say for fear of jinxing us. For one, now I can honestly say no major tragedies happened on this trip; none of us was mugged or bags slashed or luggage lost or travel plans foiled. Sure we all had diarrhea for weeks, I had violent food poisoning, two others were out with a bacteria for a week or so.... but nothing too detrimental. Not a bad trip.

There are already a few things I miss, topping the list are eating baleadas and speaking Spanish. But here a few things I welcome upon my return to the States: hot showers, washing machines (and dryers for Pete's sake!), high speed Internet, flushing the TP down the toilet... I guess it's the little things.

And I am sure I will do some more reminiscing about the trip as I put in my Reggaeton CD and cook up some huevos y frijoles, but really I guess now my blog will return to more mundane musings. Like my shower regimen experiment and whether I am really Jewish.

"Divers are special people"

2006-02-24T10:43:00.000-05:00

We are now certified open water divers, which I suppose is kind of surprising considering that less than a week ago, I had never considered diving before and even when we got here, I was sure it didn't interest me at all. Now, we are pretty much hooked.

I must admit, though, I don't think I am a natural at it. I was the one in the small class of four that was slowest to pick it up. For the few few dives, I found myself close to panic attacks, struggling to feel comfortable breathing and not feeling like my head was going to explode. Really, I had a hard time getting over the idea that we were breathing air underwater (even though I was strapped with a heavy ass air tank). It all feels a little counter-intuitive. Also, it felt much like learning to drive a stick shift - as you descend you have to remember to breath deep, exhaling fully to allow yourself to sink, equalize the air in your nose and ears constantly so you don't blow your ear drums, go slow and relax and don't forget to use all the appropriate hand signals.

The first day or so of diving was mainly a bunch of underwater skills, the worst being the one where you drop to the bottom and then have to take off your mask then put it back on and clear the water out of it. I am not sure why, but that was one of the hardest for me. We also got to do fun stuff like hover over the sand - which the first few times more closely resembled flailing about - and taking out your respirator to use your buddy's, in case you run out of air.

Yesterday afternoon was our fourth dive, and the final dive of the course. We didn't have to bother with skills, so we just got to go down about 60 feet and swim along the coral and the fish. It was amazing. We saw turtles, crabs, vibrantly colored parrot fish and trumpet fish and entire schools of fish that seemed to be swimming with us. A couple folks even saw a massive eagle ray. And more than looking around and identifying sea life, the whole experience of slowing moving along with them underwater just feet from the intricate and delicate coral was just breathtaking.

But it kind of took me a while to relax, which for those that know me well, is probably not surprising. See, I tend to be a little high strung, perhaps a bit tense. Rather than just let go and enjoy the experience, I find myself preoccupied with worst-case scenarios or slight discomforts. It was hard for me to shake the concerns of making sure my airspaces are equalized or that my mask wasn't going to fill up with water or that my head wouldn't explode. I did get more comfortable with each dive, and I expect the fun dive we have planned for today will be fine.

A self-reflective note: With all my anxieties and inabilities to relax, this trip has been good for me. I might be a little slow on the uptake with new experiences, but there have been a few times in the past two months that I have really pushed my boundaries and been pleasantly surprised. For example, the first time we went horseback riding, every single muscle in my body was tense and all I could picture was me flying forward head first and smashing out all of my teeth. By the second and third ride, I was ready to move to the country and buy a horse. It was similar with diving. The first few times, I was convinced my head would explode or I would drown or have an underwater come-apart. The third and fourth dive were progressively more enjoyable, and I am excited about getting in the water today.

One more thing that's tough about diving: you can't really laugh underwater. You can't talk or giggle, and signaling for your buddy to see what you are seeing is tough (which is why we are incessantly chatting and smiling the second we get back in the boat, after saying "that was fucking amazing" a few times the second our heads are above water and our respirators out of our mouths).

"There isn't much to do here unless you're diving"

2006-02-20T11:20:00.000-05:00

It seemed that everyone we talked to told us that if we were not diving here in Roatan, we'd have nothing to do. We thought that would be fine, but then I realized that I am the kind of person who needs an activity, some kind of outside stimulation, rather than simply sitting in the hot sun for the entire day.

So we decided to get certified to dive. Apparently this is the cheapest place in the world to learn and has some of the best conditions for diving. Not that I know a thing about diving, or even considered it until about 9 a.m. yesterday when sitting outside drinking a cup of coffee, we began chatting with some of the divers and decided maybe this is something we should do.

By 5 p.m. yesterday, we had our books and three chapters of homework. Today, we watching videos and I guess tomorrow we get in the water.

The only catch is that I don't have the most ideal sinuses, which I understand could be a hitch in diving. Filling out the questionnaire yesterday, I had to answer "yes" to a couple questions, including one about sinus surgery and allergy medications. This prompted orders from the dive instructor for me to visit the local dive doctor, which as expected, was something of an adventure this morning.

First of all, this doctor sounded kind of like a wack job when the instructor was describing him. For example, the instructor's brother has severe asthma and his doc at home warned him against any form of underwater activity. But this doctor here said it was fine, just ascend a bit slower. In fact, that was his advice for another woman whose condition was infected bug bites on her legs. No, I agree there's no connection between ascension speed and bug bites, but that was this doctor's advice.

So I went to see him this morning and paid $15 for him to look in my ears and nose and tell me I am good to go. He explained a few things about what can happen to my ears if there is too much pressure, but that I should just equalize more frequently (holding your nose and blowing out so that your ears pop a bit) and, of course, ascend slower.

our trip to the beach

2006-02-18T10:43:00.000-05:00

Por fin, we are at the beach. We made our way to the Bay Islands of Honduras on Thursday, which turned out to be yet another adventure. Here's a rough sketch of the day's events:

6 a.m. - Wake up, pack, order some breakfast, pay for our room and suck down some fruit and granola.

7:15 - Run out of the hotel and down the street, lugging our packs, with little knowledge of how we are getting to Roatan, save for a recommendation that we hitch a 7:30 speed boat ride to Puerto Barrios, Guatemala. This was to avoid ever having to set foot in Rio Dulce again (which was the original plan, return to RD and catch a bus to La Ceiba.... then on to Roatan).

7:25 - Make our way to one of the docks, where some man asked us where we were going. We say Puerto Barrios, and he hurries us into a speed boat, which was empty except for three open buckets of fish and three locals. About 30 Q and a few seconds later, we were speeding to Puerto Barrios.

8:10 - Arrive at PB. Off the boat, we tell another stranger where we are trying to get. He says there is in fact no direct bus to La Ceiba (where we know we need to be to catch a ferry to Roatan). He says we first have to go to this tiny border town, then to Puerto Cortez, then to San Pedro Sula (a total shithole that we were hoping to avoid) and then to La Ceiba. Geez. So we agree and pay an inordinate amount of money for a less-than-an-hour shuttle ride to a nothing border town.

9 - The driver pulls over and tells us this is our stop, but it looks more like a construction site with a few school buses parked along the road. This, we suppose, is the border crossing. He points to the line of buses and says they will take us to Puerto Cortez. After paying the immigration guards an exit fee, stamping our passports and hovering around the pseudo bus depot, we board one of said chicken buses - this one painted white and green and souped up with booming speakers mounted above the back door and a blinking license plate cover mounted near the front door.

About 10:30 or so - We arrive in Puerto Cortez, after having traveled through some tiny coastal towns, each marked by a blue Pepsi sign with the town's name under the logo. We talked with a few people (including a police officer from San Pedro Sula), and just sat back and enjoyed hearing the much-welcomed blaring Reggaeton and seeing Port Royal signs out the windows. (If I have not already mentioned Port Royal, it's the best beer ever. Honduran and awesome. More on that later.) We felt relaxed, like we were on our way home, sort of.

Sometime after 11 - I lose track, but at some point around 11, we arrive in PC, board yet another bus, this one a smaller shuttle, for an hour long ride to San Pedro Sula. Pretty uneventful, but yes, to answer your question, we went from riding along the coast to them back tracking inland down to SPS in order to go back up to the coast. That's just how it's done, I guess.

12:15 - Arrive at the bus station in SPS, buy ticket to La Ceiba and then wander across the street for cheese empanadas from a street vendor. We had been talking about empenadas (and baleadas and Port Royals) since we left Copan, and were really craving them. We inhaled them just in time to board the final bus of the day. About four hours later, we got to La Ceiba.

The next morning, we left one of the many danky hotels we have stayed in to catch a 10 a.m. ferry ride to Roatan. Yesterday was gorgeous: clear blue skies over sandy white beaches, lush tropical plants and palm trees, and of course cold Port Royals. The only catch here is that it is inordinately expensive. First of all, most prices are listed in American dollars, which I find annoying since last time I checked we were in Honduras and I was trying to experience the country and the language. Hotels, food, shopping - all of it is close to American prices (OK, except for lodging but $10 a night each feels like a lot after spending mere dollars to crash). But really, I can't complain. We are settling in for a week of sunning and relaxing.

I will end this entry with an open letter to Port Royal. In Spanish.

Querida Port Royal,

Te amo. Cuando yo viajaba en Guatemala, te extrane. Tu estas la mejor cerveza en todo el mundo - delicioso, fresco y mas barrato. Me gusta tomarte con limon y sal. Cuando estoy tomandote, me recuerdo nuestro viaje en Honduras y estoy feliz. Espero que nosotros podamos tomarte en los Estados Unidos cuando regresemos. Pero ahora, nosotros vamos a tomarte mucho. Gracias.

Con amor,
Sara

living is easy in Livingston

2006-02-15T20:10:00.000-05:00

If you are every considering going to Rio Dulce, Guatemala, don't. We arrived by the insane chicken bus and checked into probably the worst hotel on the face of the planet. For 35Q each (way too damn much for this shithole), we got a bright blue concrete room with three beds - one of which was more like a warped wooden palet with a sheet - no blankets, no running water, no flushing toilets and a night filled with a cacophany of noises. We woke up, or rather, we sat up after laying in this dump for most of the night, and promptly left Rio Dulce.

After a two and a half hour boat ride up the river, we arrived in Livingston, a place unlike any other in Guatemala. (Sidebar: the boat ride was billed as a tour, with stops at a bird island, hot springs, and a random oasis of lily pads, but calling it a tour is pushing it. The boat driver would pull over, say nothing, we would all take pictures of what we guessed were hot springs or a bird sanctuary, and then the boat would pull away. Strange, but the scenery was breathtaking.)

First of all, the people here in Livingston are mostly black, which we haven't we haven't seen much of since traveling in Central America. The majority of the people are Garifuna, which is decendant from African slaves and Caribs here. Livingston is on the mouth of the Carribean, and at one point we were standing on the Guatemalan beach looking out at Belize to our right and Honduras to our left. The Garifuna call it La Boga which means The Mouth, since it's the mouth of the Carribean. It's incredible. Anyway, the people are beautiful and kind and laid back and everywhere you turn, there is fish frying and drum music playing. Oh, and the landscape is much more tropical than we have seen so far, complete with lush jungle-like brush, palm trees, white sandy beaches, and crystal clear water.

We are staying at this gorgeous little hotel complete with thatched hut cabanas and fresh fish dinners. Today we wandered down the beach today (for about an hour and a half) and made it to Siete Altares, which were seven waterfalls... really today they were like five pools of cool water and a ton of rocks since it hasn't rained in so long, but it was amazing. This place really is unbelievable.

This morning, we also met a man on the street named Polo, who suggested we eat at a Garifuna's house to get a real authentic experience. He then proceeded to lead us down the beach, stopping into his friends' houses until he found a friend who would cook us dinner tonight. So we went back this evening and had grilled red snapper and rice cooked in coconut milk. The meal was amazing, mainly for the experience of being in these people's home and talking with them. Polo told us all about the Garifuna, the lifestyle (really, really laid back), the history, racial tensions between the blacks and the Hispanics here (some things are univeral around the world, I guess.) It was a good way to really get a better understanding of Livingston, the people, the culture.

As much as I have fallen in love with every place we have visited (besides Rio Dulce, that shithole), Livingston really struck a chord with me. Just walking down the street and feeling the energy... this whole town feels alive and happy, and the people just seem to be enjoying their lives. It's been nice to experience a culture so vastly different than what we have been living in the past month or so. I understand it's similar at the beach on the Bay Islands, which si Dios quiere, we will be heading tomorrow... that is if we can tear ourselves away from this place.

"if we make it through this...."

2006-02-13T21:33:00.000-05:00

About ten minutes into our bus ride from Guatemala City to Rio Dulce, my friend leans over to me and says, "Sara, if we make it through this bus ride, you have to write about it on your blog." We lived, so here goes.

We paid the gringo price for a shuttle from Lago de Atitlan to Rio Dulce, and we expected to take a shuttle the entire way, with a change in Guatemala City. Well, we did change, but rather than the posh tourist shuttle, we boarded one of the infamous and god-forsaken chicken buses. Without knowing entirely what was going on, we trusted our bags in the trunk of the bus, seriously wondering if we would ever see them again. The bus was packed (or so I thought it was to capacity when we got on) and we filed to the back row. This said back row was slightly elevated from the other seats, giving us a clear view through the windshield, sharing the same line of the site of the driver.

Ah, the driver. For the entire four and a half hour ride, he had this scary maniacal smile on his face (which we were able to admire from the rear view mirror). Like the other drivers we have seen so far in Central America, he wasted no time to pass the slow drivers, but I think this guy took it to a whole ´nother level. For each turn, he would throw his whole body into it, like he was playing an intense game at the arcade, sitting in one of those car seat booths with a large steering wheel and a screen in front of him. He´d lean to one side and throw his arm all the way across his body to make a turn. And it was quite interesting to see just how fast he managed to get this massive school bus-turned-chicken bus to go. It was equal parts terrifying, thrilling and nerve-shattering to watch as we sped past trucks, heading straight head on toward another truck, and then swinging back into the proper lane. None of us knew whether to laugh or cry or scream, so of course, we giggled incessently.

Even though every single seat was taken, we stopped every once in a while to pick up some folks. At first, we thought maybe he was looking out for his friends, and giving them a ride, since he would wave and smile and then bring the bus to a screaching halt. Then, as people began to pile into the isles, it clicked. This must be why they call them chicken buses. At one point, we saw a few guys get on, one of which had a gun. It was at this time that I had to take a few deep breaths, and just resign myself to the fact that whatever was going to happen was going to happen. Maybe we were going to get robbed blind, or shot up, or go flying above the 30 rows of seats and through the windsheild after colliding with one of the many 18-wheelers we were playing chicken with. Or maybe everything was just fine, and this is how it´s done.

It does appear that the latter was the case. But not without some pains. For one, Senor Know-it-all sat down next to me, and after telling him that we were from Alabama, he proceeded to give me the history of the state´s name, and then list all the states, towns and rivers in the US that were Native American in their origin. That´s a lot of names, folks. My friend was ready to scrap with him after he insultingly told us we were dumb for going to a travel agency and that as three young women traveling alone, we really were safe and shouldn´t worry about anything. Right. I managed to ignore him for most of the trip, but that´s just because he fell asleep and allowed his arm and leg to flop about, sqeezing me into half of my oh-so-comfortable bus seat. At least he wasn´t talking to us then.

Then we pulled over for a few women to hop aboard and sell food. Gallinas con tortillas y salsa. Despite the fact that I was starving, it didn´t seem right to gnaw on a hen leg in the back of a bus (especially next to my vegitarian friend.... and I am trying to go veg for the rest of the trip), so I asked for just a few tortillas. The woman promptly said no, gallinas y tortillas. OK, no thanks. There were a couple other stops, at which point men and women would swarm around the bus holding up baggies of cut fruit or bread for passengers to reach out the window and buy.

Somehow, I managed to snag a nap amongst this death-defying, video game of a bus ride. As we approached Rio Dulce, we began to fantasize about the cold beer, cold but much-needed shower and perhaps a plato tipico for dinner that awaited us, assuming we stepped off the bus in one piece. And we did, with our bags intact as well, and I think I am a little surprised we made it alive.

tan(ish) and happy

2006-02-12T16:35:00.000-05:00

We just spent the day in Chichicastenanga, which roughly translates to the gringo marketplace rip off madhouse. Or something like that. It´s basically endless rows of textiles, jewelry, useless Guatemalan nick-nacks, and of course gingos. That said, it was fun.

The highlight was when I decided I really wanted this beautifully colored fabric with birds sewn into it. Sounds lame, but it is beautiful. The woman wanted 600 quetzales for it, which was like $80, ridiculous and way more than I had in my wallet. We finally got her down to 400 quetzales when I realized I only had 300 to my name. After much wrangling, we got her down to 300, as long as we had a regalito (small gift) for her. We dug around in our bags, and my friend came up with a pink luggage tag with a butterfly on it. The woman´s daughter liked it, so she agreed, and I got this lovely textile for a somewhat more reasonable price. It was strangely fun talking with this woman and haggling a bit.

This weekend was the 10th anniversary of the hotel where we are staying in Santa Cruz, which is a few minutes boat ride from Panajachel. (There aren´t any roads leading to the towns surrounding the lake - each of which consists of about 2 or 3 hotels and some fancy houses perched precariously on the mountainside.) This means about 150 people piled into this tiny hotel for free dinner, a live band and much drinking and dancing. We met a ton of neat people from all over the world (including a Chicago contingency that I hope to see again when I get home) and have been having a blast. We also went on a boat ride out in the lake as part of the celebrations, ending the day with a wet, sloshy, somewhat perilous kayak trip in the chopping waters.

Tomorrow, we head to Rio Dulce. Now that we have changed our flights and have much more time on our hands, the tenor of the trip has changed for the better, as we are all more relaxed and soaking in our time here. Oh, and por fin, I am tan. OK, kind of tan, but for a blancita like me, it´s a start.

bienvenidos a lago atitlan

2006-02-09T18:42:00.000-05:00

After a three hour shuttle bus ride (we chose to forgoe the chicken bus ride, which is just old American school buses painted different colors and given cool names like Esmeralda), and then about a ten minute boat ride across the lake, crammed in with a dozen other people, our bags, a German shephard and splashing waves into the boat, we arrived. We are now in Lago Atitlan.

As far as we can tell, the activities here are much like those at Earth Lodge - sitting around, enjoying the view (equally stunning this time with a massive lake and towering mountains), drinking beer, talking to people from all over the world except Central America. I think we are itching for more activity, more sights, something a bit different. So we´ll see how tonight goes and determine our next move. If I have learned anything, it´s that nothing on this trip is set in stone - from itinerary to departure date to hotel .....

three days sequestered on a Guatemalan mountainside

2006-02-09T12:17:00.000-05:00

You haven't really lived until you have taken a shit in a 30-foot long drop toilet. Or perhaps, watched the sun set behind an active volcano in the mountains of Guatemala, while a second active volcano rummbles and releases steam off to your right.

We meant to stay one night in this place called the Earth Lodge, which is nestled on the side of a mountain overlooking three volcanoes, a roughly 15 minute drive from Antigua. As soon as we got there, we fell in love with the owners (a 28-year-old American girl and a 27-year-old Canadian guy.... and an Isreali guy who has been there five times, more recently for three months with no plans to ever leave), the views, the food, the entire atmosphere.

We heard about it from a couple we met in Copan, and it turned out we were the only guests at the time. We bunked in a dorm room with out electricity or Internet or a phone, and as I mentioned, the bathroom consisted of a long drop toilet, a sink and a freezing cold shower that broke after the first morning. But the location was unbelivable. Each night, we went to sleep to knock-you-over winds and amazingly bright moonlight and a plethora of stars. The nights and mornings were cold, but the sun warmed us up considerably during the day. One day, we decided to help out by painting avocado trees. (It's an avocado farm, and you have to paint the tree trunks white so they don't sunburn.)

The couple had four dogs (including the new edition, months-old huskie puppy Lola), two cats, seven goats, two pigs, a mountain side of avocado trees..... Really, nothing I say about this place does it justice. The views of the volcanoes were unlike anything I have ever seen before in my life, and each night we ate mounds of vegetables, which if you have been following, we a welcome change.

It looks like we are going to extend our trip. We delayed for a bit around Antigua and I was nursing a cold that slowed us down a bit more. But now were are off to Lago Atitlan, after I call American Airlines and see what I can work out.

staring down an active volcano

2006-02-06T10:30:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I peered into the mouth of an active volcano. With the lung-singeing smoke swirling around me, and three people tightly grasping me, I leaned over the edge of the volcano. As the wind moved the smoke, I could see a bright orangish red lava below. It was amazing.

We arrived in Antigua, Guatemala Saturday afternoon after a 6 hour ride in a tiny knee-cramping bus. It's very different from Copan, and considering that we have been feeling very nostalgic for the place where we just spent nearly a month, we didn't fall in love with Antigua. In fact, we were a little surprised how hard it was to leave Copan. I guess we hadn't realized how much we had built up this community of friends and peers and family (although I do not miss Juancho, and the goodbyes with my family were short and pressed). We always had people to hang out with and place to go, and always when we walked down the street, we were waving at people we knew. Now we are tourists, which we are finding is a tough transition. I think it's making us all homesick, since we no longer have the comfort of a home base.

That said, we hiked to the top of Volcan Pakaya in Antigua, which next to the horse back riding (which we did one last time before leaving Copan), was one of the best days on our trip. (Side note on the horseback riding: When we went Friday, Don Beto took us to the Frontera, near the border of Guatemala, where we pretty much had free reign to gallop with the lush green mountains spreading out in front of us. Truly breathtaking. I was riding Muneca, who I had grown quite close to, and all the horses were excited to have the room to run. Now I am toying with the idea of one day moving to a farm with horses and land and veggies and whatnot. We'll see.)

The hike to the top was roughly three hours, with the last hour being more of a scramble than a climb. One step forward, two slides backward. It was so hard, unbelievably steep, and much like climbing an escalator the wrong way. But all of the scramble was worth it when we reached the top, where we could see Guatemala City, three other volcanoes, one of which was also active and steaming from the top, fantastically green pastures, and of course, the depths of this massive volatile mountain. We were surrounded by vivid yellow, red and white rocks from the chemicals, and our guide pointed out several craters from recent erruptions, one three months ago, and a more intense one in 2000.

After resting a bit, we ran down the top part of the volcano, digging our heels into the dark ash dirt and sliding down. It was amazing.

We are trying our best to use our Spanish, but Antigua is painfully toursity and we are meeting more people from other parts of the world (which is cool in its own way, yes), but few that are fluent in Spanish. We did talk to the guide and a woman we met who weaves tapestries, but it's tough to find more opportunities to practice. We have tried to institute time during the day to talk in Spanish, but we'll see. I just don't want to loose all that we have worked so hard on.

todo es macanudo en Copan

2006-02-02T20:49:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow is the ultimo dia of classes. On Saturday we leave for Guatemala, and the plan so far is that we head first to Antigua and surrounding areas, then to Rio Dulce and then back down to the much-awaited playa in Honduras.

After roughly three weeks, we feel ready to leave to Copan, and hit the open Central American calle with our Spanish, or Spanglish or whatever happens to come out of our mouths at this point. I think I will be sad to end classes, and will miss the amazing people we have met here (save for my loco family), but we are anxious to get to traveling.

Among the plethora of slang words and dirty words that we have picked up alongthe way is one word that I understand is mainly used in Honduras: macanudo, which means cool. And yep, todo es macanudo en Copan.

a few language mistakes

2006-01-30T18:11:00.000-05:00

Learning another language, your bound to make mistakes. But the mistakes we are making tend to lean toward the vulgar.

I think the first most egregious mistake was when one of us tried to explain to her family that she just loved peanut butter. See, the previous day, we had learned the words for peanut butter (crema de mani) and penis (pene.... remember, we all have 20-something-year-old teachers who giggle and gossip like they are 13, which means we learn muchas malas palabras).

The next morning, my friend A's family is serving peanut butter at breakfast. She lives in a highly religious Seventh Day Adventist home with some one dozen kids. She looks square at her padre, and says "Mmmm, mi favorita! Me gusta crema de pene!" Which, I am sure you can understand translates to the fact that her favorite food is penis cream. Nice one. After dying a thousand deaths, her painfully quiet padre just looks at her blankly. It took her a few minutes to realize what she had said, and at that point, she was too mortified to explain her mistakes.

Other incidents have also included our friend L holding up a bottle of an illegal alcoholic beverage called "chi cha." But rather than calling it by it's proper name, she holds it up and hollers "Chi Ches!" which is slang for boobs. Similarly, one friend tried to explain that she wanted to do something, but that she was scared (Tengo miedo) and instead replied that she had shit (Tengo mierda.)

And finally, today A was talking with her teacher about the guy who took us horse back riding last week. She said she was looking forward to riding again with Don Pedo, and her teacher erupted in laughter. We've been calling him Don Pedo, because, well we thought that was his name. It's not. It's Don Beto. Don Pedo translates to Mr. Fart. Ooops again.

surreal moments, Copan edition, part II

2006-01-28T21:10:00.000-05:00

More surreal moments here in Central America:

1. We went to San Pedro Sula last night to see one of our friends off at the airport early this morning. The $5 bus ride included two movies: Duece Bigalow European Gigalo, with hysterical Spanish subtitulos, and Snow Dogs, with almost as funny subtitles.

2. Upon arriving, we stop by the hotel for a shower and then head directly to the mall. That's right. The mall. We travel three hours to S.P.S. to hit the mall, at which point we saddle up for a good old fashioned chicken sandwich from Wendy's. I guess "developing country" really means "the US making it more like the suburbs."

3. The mall is followed by TGIFridays. I wish I was lying. Flair and all. Christ.

4. Finally, discoteque time, and the reggeaton we have grown to adore and crave was a welcome break from the American pop songs and nauseating air conditioning of Friday's. But the strange part came in the middle of the evening, when the dance floor erupted to the classic "Whoop There It Is." Again, we found ourselves wondering if we were really there.

5. We left S.P.S. this morning on a giant yellow school bus where the seats had been replaced with reclining bus seats. There were a few moments when the bus took the infamous hair-pin turns through the mountains that I was sure we were all going to soon plunge to our deaths (flash back to night train to Budapest). Either that or be car sick all over the place in a school bus sans bathroom.

Somehow we made it back, and although it was a nice break from the tiny town of Copan, I am glad to be back in a place not lit entirely by fast food signs and mall lights.

a night of barfing

2006-01-26T16:31:00.000-05:00

Well, it was bound to happen. When you're cursed with a sensitive stomach and you're living in Honduras, you're bound to spend a night hugging the toilet.

Last night I split a chicken burrito with my friend. We've eaten at this place before, and the flour tortillas and white meat chicken were a welcome change from the corn tortillas, frijoles and huevos. Until about four hours after dinner.

I was violently puking most of the night - ok maybe I am being a little dramatic, but puking is never fun, and last night was especially painful. Between bouts, I would lie down and have these dreams where people were eating really disgusting food. That's probably why I kept barfing. In one dream my vegetarian friend who is here with us was chowing down on a giant ground beef pie. Gross.

I managed to make it to class today, and am feeling a bit better, but I can guarantee that my love affair with the chicken burrito is over. I just thought I'd share that with everyone.

drama en copan

2006-01-25T15:49:00.000-05:00

So I sit down to breakfast this morning - which surprisingly was not Corn Flakes, but not surprisingly involved frijoles and huevos - and had an interesting conversation with mi madre. Again, it was all in Spanish, so there is a small caveat that I misunderstood. But I gotta tell you, no matter how you say it, it wasn´t cool.

She starts by asking if we are staying in a hotel when we travel, and when I tell her yes, she goes on this rant about how expensive everything is and how the food in Copan is so expensive because its all from San Pedro Sula. OK, fine. Then she sits down and proceeds to tell me about how after me, she doesnt want to host any more students because its just too expensive. She said she tells them she doesnt want anymore students, but then they call her and she agrees. I ask her if the money we pay each week is not sufficient, and she said it wasnt and that she doesnt want to do it anymore.

So I asked her if she would like me to find another family to live with. She said no no no, of course not, but I am beginning to think this is not a good match. It was all fine and good at first, but now her son Juancho wont look at me and rarely eats meals with us now - what a baby - and Yolanda has complained ever day how expensive everything is, especially the vegetables I want to eat (even after I assure her I dont need to eat a small mountain of broccoli at every lunch). Ugh, drama.

The good news is I am close to finishing the intermediate book and embarking on advanced. Little by little, friends.

Tonight the small city of Copan is being turned upside down for a giant fiesta in the name of the new mayor. I think he is being inaugurated here this afternoon, and then a big old celebration ensues. The streets are packed already with locals and tourists, and they started setting up for this shin-dig last night. Vamos a ver....

surreal moments, copan edition

2006-01-23T18:13:00.000-05:00

So every once in a while, my friends and I stop and look around at where we are and what we are doing. Every day we seem to have these really surreal moments like we are living someone elses lives. Here are a few:

1. The four of us crammed in the back of a souped up Toyota Carrola - complete with two spinners and two missing hubcaps - riding through the Copan countryside, with American pop songs blaring, on the way to the coffee farm where we will be volunteering.

2. At said coffee farm, measuring and bagging coffee beans, while my friend seals the plastic bags in a machine. Wouldn't be so strange, except that she does this for a living in the States and today she did it in Central America.

3. Listening to a Honduran cover band play Metallica, among other American rock songs, while the bassist headbangs and the crowd goes nuts for the heavily accented English songs.

4. Realizing at about noon each day after classes, that I have just spent the last four hours speaking completely in Spanish, and for the most part, I knew what was going on.

Also noteworthy is my interactions with my family. See, I haven't eaten a green vegetable in a week and a half. So I mentioned this fact to the school director, who promtly calls my madre and tells her to please cook more vegetables. She confronts me last night when I got home, and said - Hey, I thought you said you ate everything and now Enrique said you only eat vegetables? After some difficulty, I think I managed to explain I do eat everything, but sometimes I like to eat vegetables. Green ones. So for lunch, they had set out a massive mound of broccoli, green beans and tomatoes for me. They ate a meat and potatoe pie. Strange.

(I have a hunch that he also told Juancho to leave me alone, because be barely looked at me during lunch. A small part of me feels bad, and a larger part feels relieved.)

We've started seeing a lot of tourists filter into the city and we feel like they are infringing on our territory. We like to think that since we spend time speaking Spanish and hanging out with locals, that we are regular Copanecas.

a regular caballera

2006-01-19T20:47:00.000-05:00

Today was tough. It all started with the fact that it was the second cloudy and cold day here in Copan, quite the rarity I understand.

Then in class, we are working on direct and indirect pronouns, which I can't distinguish in English, much much less in freaking Spanish. Something about receiving things from an action and the other receiving the aciton or something. Fine. But then they change depending on other things and the alignment of the sun and the shift in the tide and whatnot. Almost cried.

I was also frustrated after trying to use the phone for several days and it's just a tragedy. See, you go to this internet cafe (a different one for those keeping track), you give the phone number to some dude, who picks up a portable phone and dials it and then when it starts ringing, hands it to you. It goes through about 42 percent of the time, and if you are lucky enough to make the connection, it's quiet and after about 2.5 minutes, it cuts off, and all you hear is "Can you hear me? I can't hear you...." Muy frustrada.

Then there's mi familia, which I understood today is unlike other families in Copan. My family eats together every meal, sitting and chatting for a long time. It's also a good time for the son, Juan - who everyone in town calls Juancho, which I am convinced is because he is pushing 500 pounds and looks like a latino Java the Hut - to make total fun of me. He makes some oh-so-clever plays on words that I of course do not understand and then laughs and acts like I am an idiot for not understanding. I have been on the verge of tears about four times during meals there. Lo siento, no entiendo Juan! Leave me alone!!

Example: Today I told him I made tortillas. So he said, Did you make "insert another Spanish word for tortillas that Sara doesn't understand here." I think, hmmm that doesn't sound like tortillas, so no I didn't make that. Then he laughs and says, tortillas IS "said word." Bwa-hahahaha. I know, it sounds mild, but when you spend the entire day every day speaking a language that is frustrating and your head hurts and all you are doing is trying your hardest to be fluent and open, and then some jackass treats you like a tiny gringa, it's hard. There are other examples... I am sure Juancho will come up again.

But today, for now the second time in my life, I rode a horse. (Here's where the tough part of the day ends.) Not riding Oak Mountain style, like I did after Christmas, where I could only trot for a second, and the guides were timid for fear of litigation. In Copan, it's very different.

My two friends and I met up with our Caballero who led us the edge of town where we mounted four horses and set off on the dirt road, pulling over every few minutes to let souped-up cars pass. After a few minutes were in the mountains.

No words can describe what this was like. But I will try, in English. We trotted along for a bit, looking at jalapeno farms and hordes of cows and men walking by with giant machetes and knee high rubber boots (coffee farms, I think). We climbed hills, and descended hills leaning back in our saddles so as not to spill forward and loose all our teeth. We wound around tiny break-neck roads, looking at lush green plants and rolling hills. In the distance, every once in a while, you could see a tiny statue at the top of the mountain with a roof over it. They were small Mayan statues, protected from the rain and sun.

Our guide took us up one mountain and to the house of an indiginous family, of Mayan descent. The dusty children were playing in front of the mud and tree house - the girls all in dresses, and all barefoot - while the women crafted tiny dolls inside out of dried and dyed corn husks (the same dolls these girls then sell in town for 20 limpiras or about one dollar). They showed us how they made them, chatted with us a bit, and then we all chewed on some fresh sugar cane the caballero cut from the brush. Oh, and then the phone rang, which was kind of strange, because considering some kids didn't even have pants on and there wasn't a light or door or wall to speak of.

We then made another stop a home where we learned to make corn tortillas. Ours were a little fatter than they are supposed to be, but we patted them down, put them next to the hot fire and then ate them up with frijoles. Muy rico!

The way home, though, was priceless. The horses were antsy and given the go-ahead ran the whole way home. Full f-ing gallop, folks. We were flying down the hills and along the rocky paths, the wind in our hair, our asses bouncing painfully, our stomaches sore from laughing uncontrollably and our fingers blistering from hanging on for dear life. This was by far the most amazing experience, and my most unbelievable so far.

Every once in a while, we look at each other and say - We are in f-ing Honduras. We did it. We are really here, speaking only Spanish, sitting in a hot spring, talking with locals, and riding horses. The horses part was just incredible. The caballero said he would take us out again next week and we could ride - galloping most of the way - to the Guatemala border. Como se dice - giddyup y'all!!

Oh and one more thing. I haven't had an enjoyable bathroom experience in about four days, and one of us is deathly ill - diarrhea and vomiting ... the works. I am beginning to think this is just part of it, that I will no longer wish for a normal bathroom experience and just get used to the current state of affairs. Great.

heuvos y frijoles, frijoles y huevos...

2006-01-17T18:06:00.000-05:00

Today I learned the past tense. Finally.

I had been asking my teacher if we could learn that, and she kept saying we needed other lessons first, but without past tense (which, yes, I took many years ago and just don´t remember), I am pretty useless when talking to mi familia. They always ask me what we did, where we went... and really I was not following.

Until now. I think I turned a corner in my Spanish speaking. More and more, I am picking up vocab words and trying phrases. I am pretty much speaking Spanish to my teachers, family and locals we meet and sometimes with mi amigas. But, it was refreshing to have a day in class where it seemed to click.

What is also refreshing is a hot shower at my friends house, which by the way is a coke den without a doubt. The men there are all strung out and my friend swears she saw a man dressed in a full motorcross uniform and another man with a massive wad of American dollars. Definitely a coke house, and we do hear coke is popular in these parts.

We also spent the day at the pool, working on our tarea (homework) and getting some sun. What a life.

Things are not refreshing include the current state of my stomach. Not happy. Me duele mi estomago. I am surprised I got this far without problems, and I am a little worried about the traditional Honduran meal mi madre is planning for tonight.

Which brings me to the meals. Para desayuno (for breakfast), huevos y frijoles (eggs and beans, actually a nice break from the corn flakes and warm milk) and then para cenar (for dinner), lo mismo ... huevos y frijoles, frijoles y huevos. A massive lunch at noon and eggs and beans to start and finish the day. Not bad now, but I give myself about four more days until I never want to see frijoles again... its already that way with corn flakes.

Yesterday we went hiking in the mountains, stoppìng to talk to some locals along the way. As you leave Copan, the people become visibly smaller (12 year olds look 6 at best), and the state of poverty is glaring. Most people live in small huts, some without electricity or running water. At one house, there was a young man who was 17, but looked maybe 12 or 13, and had three children, one of which was I think 5. But they are so nice, and seem to enjoy talking with us.

Tomorrow, there is are rumors of horseback riding. (p.s. I couldn´t find spell check again... lo siento)

bailamos mucho

2006-01-14T16:04:00.000-05:00

It feels like it has been a month since we arrived. Everyday is so different, and every day we wake up feeling different about this place, the school, our Spanish skills, our travel plans. Here are a few disjointed thoughts:

On the second day of class, I felt like I could no longer speak any Spanish. I was just frustrated (one of my friends here cried in her first lesson - talk about frustrated, but then again she had what we called la maestra stricta) and my brain was too full of different words and tenses. Breakfasts and lunches with mi familia are the hardest part because no matter what I have no idea what my host mother is saying. In the mornings, I am tired and dreading slurping down another bowl of corn flakes and she starts talking to me right away, words I don't know coming at me way to fast. And lunch is the big meal of the day, so we all sit around the dining room table and I struggle to keep up.

This morning we went to the Mayan ruins, about a kilometer away from the town. It was a beautiul, sunny, humid morning, and the ruins were breathtaking. See, the Mayans apparently predicted that something big will happen in 2012 - the end of the world or something similar. Well at first I was ready to buy this, seeing their massive structures, intricate writings and traces of the society. Then I am told they also believed that we all lived on a giant turtle, hovering above the underworld and below the heavens. Hmmm, a turtle. Now I am not so sure I will be rushing to prepare for 2012. But that aside, the ruins were spectacular. We had a great tour guide who loves what he does and told animated stories.

And last night, we danced. We went to the discoteque with the director of the school, his friends, a few teachers and a couple other students. Surprisingly, we have been speaking Spanish most of the time. Sure, conversation is limited, but we have been learning so much - including malas palabras, courtesy the silly 23-year-old teaches - and are able to hold our own and keep laughing. But before the dance party, we sat out in the street, in front of the liquor store, drinking rum and sprite from plastic cups. It was amazing. We laughed and talked and drank. Once again, everyone here is incredibly nice and open.

Other observations: Here, you can't put toilet paper in the toilet. That's right. You use the bathroom, then use the toilet paper and then discard it in the garbage can. That's hard to get used to. Also, what they say is a warm shower is something just above ice water. And to get said "warm" shower, there is a water heater mounted on the shower head, plugged in an electric outlet just above the shower. It's seems a little death defying, but I am not sure there is much of a choice here.

We are still not sure what our plans are after the classes, which may be for two weeks, maybe three. Maybe Guatemala, maybe Belize, maybe the coast of Honduras. As I said, we are learning a lot, and using a lot of our Spanish - which when it's just the four of us, quickly becomes disjointed Spanglish - and soaking in the laid back lifestyle of Copan. It's a sleepy town, and I am gathering that our families and teachers think we are a little loca, because we laugh a lot, like having fun and drinking cervezas and of course, dancing.

Bievanidos a Copan, Honduras

2006-01-13T10:02:00.000-05:00

I made it, and so far this place is unlike any place I have ever been to. Where do I begin? (p.s. I couldn't get the spell checker to work on this computer, so I apologize if there are blatant mistakes.)

After nearly 12 hours of flying and waiting in airports, my three friends and I finally landed in San Pedro Sula, Honduras. We went through customs and were greeted by a man holding a sign with my friend's name on it. We had heard San Pedro Sula gets pretty sketchy at night and that there is some gang violence, so we were eager to get to Copan and settle in our respective host homes. What I didn't realize was that it was going to be a three-hour white-nuckle death-defying ride to get there.

We piled into a small chicken bus and took what appeared to be the only road - "road" being a generous word here... more like beaten path for cars - to Copan. Even in the dark, we could tell the landscape was breathtaking: rolling hills, lush vallies, tropical plants, and strangely Pepsi logos on ever other sign or building. But most of the ride was concentrated on not tipping off the side of the mountain or slamming into the plethora of yellow school buses as we passed them as if in a stunt car. At one point we passed a truck that had collided with an even bigger truck. This was the point that just gave in, and figured what's going to happen is going to happen. (Toward the end, we were all concentrating on not barfing up the peanut butter crackers we had for dinner. And nevermind the fact that as we got close to town, we kept slowing to dodge meandering horses and stray dogs in the road.)

A few hours later, we were dropped off at our host homes. I am living with Yolanda's family, which so far I think consists of a son, daughter-in-law, daughter, and perhaps a few others. It's a one-story bright yellow house with a patio festooned with maybe two dozen wind chimes. I get my own room, complete with three framed pictures of Jesus and a plastic bust of praying Jesus above my door. In fact, Jesus is all over the house. The room is painted a jarring orange and smell faintly of a recent bug bomb.

My host mother means business. When I woke up yesterday, she had a bowl of Corn Flakes waiting for me, and she spoke to me exhaustingly in Spanish. She informed me that lunch was at noon, dinner at six, and I would eat with my family to practice my Spanish. Yes ma'am. Or Si Senora.

After seeing the town and stuffing our faces with pasta for lunch, we went to school. I took one look at the entrance exam, and immediately changed my expectations for the trip. Perhaps fluency is expecting too much. I didn't remember any of my verb tenses. But after I sat down with my teacher and we spoke a bit, the several years of Spanish came back. I found I could converse, but those damn tenses still mess me up. Toward the end of the day - and last night after dreaming in Spanish - I began to think maybe I can do this. A few weeks of this constant Spanish speaking, as well as lessons on the tenses and vocab, is sure to make a Spanish speaker out of me.

Last night we went with a group from the school to some hot springs about an hour away. Again: small bus, bumpy roads, upset stomach. At the springs, we dipped in these large, round pools of steaming, sulfer-smelling bath water. We spoke mostly in Spanish, chatting with a few of the instructors. Our host families had packed us all dinner, so we took a break for ham and cheese sandwiches slathered with mayo on sticky white bread and a beer. I thought for sure I would be eating healthier - at least more beans and a corn tortilla or two. But it's been white bread and pasta and Pepsi, and I have noticed there are more overwieght people here than I expected. I suppose that is a universal sign of wealth, and I am guessing my host family is among Copan's upper class, as seen in their weight and diet and the fact that they can dedicate an entire room and bathroom to some random American girl - then again, I'm income.

Anyway, it's warm here, and humid. We're in shorts and T-shirts. Copan is a tiny town with cobblestone streets and brightly colored concerete buildings. Most of the houses have open courtyards where a foyer or entryway would be and the bars and restuarants seem to have similar back yards teaming with lush tropical plants. Everyone we have met has been so kind and welcoming, which I am realizing is a far cry from my travels in Central Europe. There are wandering, barking dogs everywhere and the occassional horse. As we drove to the hot springs, the streets were lined with small, open homes with children playing in the dirt, a mother washing clothes on the porch, and often a small lit porch where men in white cowboy hats sat around drinking beer.

It's only day two, but so far this place is amazing. The landscape, the people, the weather, the vegetation - it's all so spectacular. Now, I just need to get better at my Spanish. And I am sure our outing to the discoteque tonight with help with that.

adios amigos

2006-01-10T23:00:00.000-05:00

At this time tomorrow night, I will be nestled in the home of complete strangers in Copan, Honduras. I am not sure what to expect from the host family, the school, the trip in general.

But I am packed and ready, and after a no-doubt restless night of anxious tossing and turning, I'll be on my way.

I am hoping to have Internet access (oh God, life without it? Now, I am not sure I signed up for that.) and will be keeping the blog posts going. I might even do one or two in Spanish, so dust off those dictionaries.

Adios.

faux-duation 2005 - er, uh 2006

2006-01-08T13:29:00.000-05:00

In my final days speaking my mother tongue before shipping off to Central America have been spent scrambling to finish a couple stories (decorative pillows = bane of my existence), packing up a few things, and participating in a faux-duation or mock-duation....

See my grad school holds graduations twice a year, even though people are finishing each quarter. My designated time to walk was in the Spring, three months before I actually finished. The same was true for several of my colleagues so we decided to ask the Assistant Dean to host a mini ceremony. So on Saturday, several of us trucked out to the burbs to drink some wine and walk across her deck.

The whole idea was a little strange, but when we pulled up and saw purple balloons tied to her car (school colors), we realized she had a good sense of humor about the whole thing. She had draped her tables in purple plastic tablecloths, bought purple spoons and cups and hung a giant "Congratulations" sign in her living room.

After being one of only three silly enough to walk across the deck, shake the dean's hand while holding a purple cup of wine in the other, and then drink a champagne toast to J-school, it finally felt official. Still no job, but at least now I really graduated.

(We also had a chance to sit down with one of the professors and, with wine-induced and new-graduate honesty, tell him just how we think they should change the school. With a new dean coming in, all seem a bit anxious about impending transformations - the ever-present fears of selling out and tainting the media with the business side surfacing. We did advice him that to avoid bad press, they should fully involve the alumni in the process - we've all seen how that listserv can run amok when the alumni see danger. More on that as the process gets underway, I'm sure.)

I leave on Wednesday. We have shortened our five weeks of classes to three immersed weeks and two weeks of traveling. I am nervous about again heading to a country where I don't really speak the language, knowing the isolation and frustration that brings. However, I will be with friends, and I am trying to keep my wits about me - remembering that this is an adventure, it's only five weeks, the Spanish skills will come rushing back.

for shame, news media

2006-01-04T15:51:00.000-05:00

Today's headlines in the print editions of the New York Times, USA Today and no doubt several others across the country announced the news that the 12 of the miners trapped in West Virginia were found alive.

Problem is, we now know all but one are dead. For three hours, the cable news channels and newspaper Web sites were reporting that the miners had been rescued alive. Many of the stories - many still glaring from the front pages of the print editions - reported this news with little doubt or qualifications that the news wasn't confirmed. Instead, they ran with it.

An Editor & Publisher story explains: "It is unclear why the media carried the news without nailed-down sourcing. Some reports claim the early reports spread via cell phones and when loved ones, and the governor, started celebrating most in the media simply joined in."

After the reports were corrected, TV stations and newspapers apparently scrambled to correct it, some stopping the presses, some adding hedge words to the stories, and some rewriting the news entirely. But, according to E&P, few explained why they decided to run with the story without confirming the rumors. And now the news media is disgraced, and the miner's families are on an emotional rollercoaster.

Something tells me it has to do with the pressures to get the story first, heightened by the 24-hour news channels and Web sites. I am certainly not an editor faced with making this decision, but really there should be no excuse for misreporting any news - particularly that with such painful repercussions.

giving in to the New Year hype

2006-01-03T22:09:00.000-05:00

Although I stand by the notion that New Year's Eve is just another night (with just more drinking - and this year, a barrel roll on my friend's back porch by a guy who looked just like Peter Jackson), I do get caught up in the idea of having New Year's resolutions.

I don't necessarily keep them, or even remember what they were, but I like the idea of starting over, making some changes and setting goals. If I recall correctly, I vowed that I would become a good runner in 2005. I planned to start slow, building up my stamina and maybe, just maybe, one day see the possibility of a marathon on the horizon. I failed. I can jog maybe ten minutes if you were to chase me with a bucket of fire.

I also meant to read more, eat well, exercise regularly, yadda yadda yadda. We've heard it all before.

A few things I did do in 2005 that I am not entirely disappointed by are:

1) Finished grad school. (Yay! Now maybe one day, I'll apply for a job, leverage my aces J-school connections and heavy weight alma mater, and then eventually become an award-winning writer.)

2) Moved to a new city alone (technically this part happened last fall, but humor me here), made new friends and survived a Chicago winter. Then moved to a foreign country, learned a few key words, wrote a few stories, struggled in the dregs of isolation and loneliness, made a few friends, traveled through Middle Europe and survived the whole mind-scramble that was the global journalism quarter.

3) Learned to knit (sort of. I am stuck on this one stubborn stitch, which has caused me to feel like a failure, put the needles down and swear to try again soon... but I am getting ahead of myself.)

4) Subsisted as a freelancer, making it through the weeks where I had taken on too many stories, weeks where I thought for sure I would never write again and be doomed to eat only Ramen Noodles, and weeks of constantly checking my mailbox waiting for the check to finally arrive.

Shoot, this entry morphed into the dreaded year-end post. Gross. What I meant to get into was a few things I have planned for 2006. As I previously referenced, I would like to get better at knitting. And I am not too ashamed to reclaim my goals of becoming a solid runner (marathon 2007?), reading more, flossing daily and eating better.

Also on the docket this year are to get a newspaper job and to get back to the business of being a good GF who lives in the same city as her BF. I also feel the need to dedicate a little time on me - finding ways to be a little less high-strung, a little more comfortable with who I am and the choices I make, and focusing on being just all-around generally happy.

giddyup, y'all

2005-12-31T17:40:00.000-05:00

I finally got to ride a horse. Somehow, I managed to grow up in the South, with a step-mother and step-sister who compete in horseback riding shows or whatever you call it (which, come to think of it, might be why I rejected the pastime so fervently), and I never rode a horse. Until today.

Said step-sister and I drove out to the state park for our 11 a.m. appointment to hit the trails. As we waited around for the teenagers to saddle up the horses, I saw the one I wanted to ride, and you know, I think he spotted me, too. His name was Spot and looked a little raggedy, a touch meek, but anxious to prove his horsehood. Step-sis got an even more raggedy looking, smaller horse I nicknamed Mange but I think her name was Goldie.

I realized really quickly that my visions of galloping though the fields atop a fearsome, muscular stallion while the wind whipped through my hair and all the animals in the fields cowered was just a fantasy. In fact, only once did Spot break out of the sleep-inducing gait, at which point I panicked and pulled back on the reins until we were at a near standstill. (I don't have health insurance. I am high strung. And all I could picture was Spot getting a taste of the free life, breaking from the trail full speed ahead, while I hung on for dear life until finally I was flung off, my head hitting a rock, my teeth flying and my most crucial bones crumbling.)

The two of us had two guides for the 45-minute meander: Matt and Matt. They were some good ol' boys, as was to be expected, but the extreme level off their Deep South country-fication was alarming. Allow me to illustrate in a ripped-straight-from-the-scene exchange (to be read in your best slow Southern redneck drawl):

Matt 1: Man, I got home last night, and there were 10, 12 deer in my yard.

(Me thinking: Oh how nice! Deer! They are so beautiful and naturey)

Matt 1 continued: Yeah man, then I went in and got my crossbow.

(Me thinking: Hmm.... I wonder why he would need a -- oh...)

Matt 2: Aw man, you get you some?

Matt 1: Naw man, it was all foggy, but I thought I got one but it done just git on up and run off.

Matt 2: Aw, man.

Matt 1: Oh but I am ready tonight. I got me a bag of corn, two more in the garage, and I got some stump licker all over my stumps back there. And I got a case of beer in the truck and a 12-pack in the fridge. I'm gonna eat me some deer meat, man.

This was early in the ride, and about the time that I realized the only thing we had in common with our guides were the horses between our legs. Other clues were Matt 2 asking me what I did for a living, and then asking what a freelance writer was. He then told me (after I told him I don't own a car but take public transport everywhere in Chicago): "Subways and buses? Man, that's the quickest way to get yourself mugged. You better get you a car."

Although it wasn't exactly the crowd-pleasing show of Napoleon's Marengo, it was an experience nonetheless. Feeling the strong animal underneath me was both empowering and humbling, like I was fierce and unstoppable, a force to be reckoned with, but strangely not in control at all, at the mercy of a beast must larger and stronger than I. After our 45-minutes, I began to feel a little more connected to Spot, as if at any moment he would begin to answer me or agree with my musings on our serene surroundings.

***

It's New Year's Eve, otherwise known as a night pretty much like any other night, except with the pressure to look good, have fun, get wasted, and kiss someone right at midnight. Seems painfully arbitrary to me, but as usual, I will participate. I thought about crafting some kind of year-end this-is-what-I-have-learned blog entry, but didn't quite get there. Maybe I'll think up some resolutions, which will inevitably be broken by March 1.

you know you're in the South when....

2005-12-29T10:37:00.000-05:00

... you're outside in a T-shirt and sunglasses a few days after Christmas.

... your name morphs into this muti-syllabic word unrecognizable in other parts of the country.

... your statement of good news is followed with a "well, you must have accepted Jesus into your life."

... you see a giant Confederate flag-patterned Playboy bunny decal on the back of a truck.

... every dish is prepared with butter, sour cream, cheese, and often bacon. Or it's deep fried.

... everyone around you moves slowly - chewing the fat with the cashier at the store, slowing the car to a stop in the middle of the road looking for a parking spot, generally taking their time with each task.

***

A note on families and getting older: This year, as with the past few years, my brother and I said we didn't want Christmas presents. We don't really need things, since we both make money and when we need or want something we buy it. And inevitably for Christmas, you wind up getting a bunch of things you either return for store credit or you just take back home with you, unsure of what to do with it.

See, my family still hasn't moved on from the tradition of putting lots of things under the tree and sitting around on Christmas morning taking turns tearing into gift wrapped boxes. With two younger step-siblings, we have been slow to move to an adult Christmas, with perhaps a gift or two and a greater focus on eating ham and drinking whiskey.

But after much rangling, I gave in to my father's requests, and told him a few things I wanted: to ride a horse, a book on knitting and pilates DVD. I did get a book, but then I also got a mid-riff-baring sweater, six pairs of size-L panties, and a hammer and a screwdriver (both of which I bought for myself three months ago when my tools were stolen.) Meanwhile, my brother's only request was no clothes. He was given a sweater, a woman's scarf, shorts and pants. Clothes.

I don't want to sound ungrateful, because I know there are many people far less privileged than I, but Christmas just makes me wonder - Do they even know me? Do they want to know me? When I do tell them things, are they even listening?

Similarly, I went to have dinner at my step-grandparents house the other night, and when we walk in, step g-ma says "[Your step-mother] says you love spaghetti, so we cooked you spaghetti!" innocent enough right? Well, I don't really eat spaghetti, because a) I have hard core GI problems and pasta does not do a body good, and b) I try to avoid refined carbs because they are void of nutritional value. Family knew this. Or so I thought. They also know I am lactose intolerant, but still continue to serve creamy dumpling casserole with cheese and sour cream (or some variation on the theme).

Again, not wanting to sound ungrateful, but it had to be said.

So what do we do? Bite our tongues? Try to connect, but when it fails, understand that we are still family, and by definition we will have our dysfunctions?

***

And finally, a voyeuristic treat. I was just informed of this slice of Craigslist where you can post missed connections - "I saw you," "Cute barista at Starbucks," and even a "sorry babe, I boned my ex this weekend." Voyeuristicly brilliant.

moustaches are the new black

2005-12-24T14:23:00.000-05:00

After much debate (and a few of my friends thinking I am crazy), I thought it necessary to dedicate an entire post to moustaches.

I am a huge fan of the 'stache, and I think their comeback into the fashion mainstream is just around the corner. As with many trends, this too will begin with people a) ignoring it, not caring about The Great Moustache renaissance, b) laughing at moustaches, perhaps out of ignorance, c) attacking the moustachioed for boldly leading the charge, and finally d) accepting the 'stache. Soon every man will want one.

See, moustaches are the perfect blend of masculine, pervy, sexy and absolutely ridiculous. A moustache says: "I can fix the kitchen sink, I might say something sexually inappropriate, I don't take myself too seriously, and I will always keep you guessing."

Although I think most men can rock a moustache with much panache, there are a few things to keep in mind (compiled with some male input):

1. If you've tried and can't quite fill out that upper lip with hair, give it up. Shave. It's not meant to be.

2. Maintain the 'stache. They must be trimmed and brushed, and a bit of conditioning probably wouldn't hurt it either. But don't take it too far, a la Prince circa 1990.

3. The moustache is not limited to indie rockers in plaid shirts and clip on ties listening to Death Cab for Cutie. Or to horse-riding rednecks, porn stars, plumbers or Edgar Allan Poe. It is not an accessory, but the centerpiece of any style. So grow one, and be yourself.

4. On a related point, if you have chosen the moustachioed way, be comfortable in it. Own it. Walk around like you know you look awesome, and you will then be a successful 'stached trend-setter.

holidays = fashion tragedies

2005-12-23T15:36:00.000-05:00

When I was in high school, and the term "don't go there" wasn't tired and lame (and Ricki Lake was still on daytime television), my friends and I decided we were going to write a book called "Don't Go There." It was going to be a guide of blatant fashion violations to avoid at all costs. We used to sit around at the coffee shop and come up with chapter titles and new fashion don'ts.

No, we never wrote the book, and looking back, I am certain we were guilty of several violations. Either way, some ten years later, here's my "Don't Go There Fashion Guide: Holiday Edition."

Really, there is only one key fashion violation during the holidays: Christmas-themed appliqued sweaters or sweatshirts. They have never been in style, so me telling you they are a violation should come of little surprise. Wearing these oversized eye sores will not boost the holiday spirit of those around you, and in fact might have the opposite effect on others, like myself (much like holiday music, now that I think about it).

My brother noted today that you never see good looking, young, thin hotties prancing around the city streets wearing red sweaters bedecked with sparkling snowmen, jingling bells or a fuzzy Santa. It's usually the borderline obese women wandering around the suburban Southern mall. It might sound harsh, but he's right, and last time I checked, these women aren't the folks setting fashion standards. (Sometimes, I wonder if these sweaters proliferate outside of the South. Someone please enlighten me. I'm accepting photo submissions.)

Similarly, donning earrings with bells, Christmas trees, or related accoutrements should be illegal. Decorate your house, hang lights on your lawn, but seriously does it need to creep into the closet? Until the day I see someone rock a Christmas sweater tastefully (again, submissions), I'm going to say no. Is there a way to dress festively without looking like an idiot? I am sure there must be, but I haven't seen it.

Also related, is dressing your children in matching holiday outfits - either matching your festive garb or matching each other. Nine times out of ten they don't look cute, only tortured and silly.

After discussing holiday fashion violations with my brother, we decided there was at least one thing that could slide: Dressing pets in holiday-themed sweaters, reindeer antlers and jingle bell collars? Fine. Anything dogs do is awesome and cute.

Editor's note: I don't claim to be a fashion czar, and have been called out many times on my taste (such as moustaches and plaid shirts, but c'mon those are awesome!). But this is my blog, and I get to act like I know something. Also, I (and my brother) kind of become a scrooge this time of year when surrounded by slow-driving, Christmas-sweater-wearing Southerners lapping up the Christmas sales and humming about building a snowman in the morning. Jesus. Bah humbug.

pouring one out

2005-12-22T11:14:00.000-05:00

This time of year is always tainted with the persistent hole left by people we've lost. When a piece of the family is missing - no matter how long that piece was taken and no matter how many or few other family members come together - we are always acutely aware that they aren't here too.

Last night, a friend of mine and I were talking about our dead mothers. Her mom died last spring - on Mother's Day no less - and the two were very close. We were talking about how now it's like she has been given the password to the secret club, how she's somehow different, marked, and only young people who have lost a parent understand, but that it's unspoken. This is a feeling I have had for more than a dozen years.

People are painfully uncomfortable talking about death. My friend recalled how others tip-toe around her mom's death, choosing their words carefully. But why? Are they afraid she'll have a comeapart? That it's not really real, and by talking about it makes it so? That she'll be insulted you brought it up? I don't really remember the awkwardness because I was so young, but even today, when it comes out that I lost my mother, people want to apologize, change the subject, unsure how to ask the nagging questions like how old were you, and was it cancer.

To be sure, folks, not a day goes by that I don't think about my mother. She made me who I am, and I own every part of it - her life, her illness, her death - and it has grown with me. Nothing about it makes me uncomfortable, and my guess is it's the same way for many young people who have lost a parent.

So I say let's talk about our dead mothers, and better yet, let's pour one out. Which is exactly what my friend and I did.

She had poured me a glass of wine, just as we were wrapping up our having-a-dead-mother-is-the-pits talk. And both our mother's were big drinkers - hers: Bud Light in cans and red wine, mine: Bourbon on the rocks. So I said, "Let's pour one out for our moms." We both positioned our glasses to let a little drop hit the ground for them, paused, and looking at each other said simultaneously: "But not too much!" (knowing our mother's would never want us to waste a drink!)

a really important update

2005-12-20T00:02:00.000-05:00

If you'll recall, I wrote a while back about embarking on something of a bathing experiment. I traded in my harsh bar soap, usually the 39 cent Walgreens brand, for the body wash and loofah routine.

It's been a little more than a month of me using the new products fairly regularly. Inspired by the process, I also brought fancy face wash into the shower and followed the washing with a post-shower full body lotioning (something I know we should all do, especially considering the windchill was -15 degrees today - just murder on your skin!). Here are my post-experiment observations:

- My skin was almost instantly softer and certainly smoother - at least to me - and less winter-triggered itchy.

- Because I used several new products, it is hard to say the product to which I can attribute the change. For example, the body wash and loofah might have done well on exfoliating, but perhaps the lotion was the softening kicker. Hard to say.

- The length of the shower has at least doubled to roughly 8 minutes, and days when I don't have that kind of time, or I am just needing a post-gym rinse, the bar soap wins.

- One downfall was that after I used the body wash, I felt as if it never fully rinsed off, like there was a film of soap left behind - a far cry from the clinically squeaky-clean Ivory soap feeling. Sometimes I prefer that feeling, although my skin tells me otherwise.

In all, I will likely continue the regimen, perhaps trying new brands of shower gel (I've been told a clear gel rather than the creamy Dove variety might suit me better). I could live without the shave gel, but I think it will be 15 years before I finish off this massive can. But lotion has certainly been incorporated into my daily routine. I still fancy myself low maintenance, so only some of this elaborate regimen can become permanent.

****

I went to eat Ethiopian food tonight for what I thought was the first time. It felt like a brand new experience, tastes and textures and techniques I have never tried before. Then I got home, and my BF reminded me we ate Ethiopian when we first lived in DC. Maybe he's pulling my leg, or maybe I have serious memory retention issues.

But if you haven't tried it, I highly recommend it. You use this spongy, stretchy, kind of bitter tasting bread - which strangely feels like you could sew the pieces together for a sweatshirt - to pick up the food. Lentils, spicy chicken falling off the bone, creamy spinach, are plopped in dollops on another thin layer of said bread. Eating with your hands feels natural and liberating. Service was painfully slow, company was delightful, and food delicious.

****

In other news, you will all be pleased to know I did not blow my brains out at Sears while holiday shopping this weekend, as I feared. (I came close at Marshall Fields, but resorted to a mini-comeapart, interrupted by a kind woman asking me and my friend if we thought a 13-year-old girl would like the hideous hoodie with two black cats she had picked out. Her question allowed me to focus for a minute, thus staving off a complete meltdown.) In fact, being downtown was quite festive, and perhaps the highlight was seeing a few dozen pigeons huddled around the eternal flame at Daley Plaza. Not sure why I liked that scene so much, but perhaps because it made total sense. They were cold too. They found fire and huddled up near it. Of course.

women who hate other women

2005-12-17T12:44:00.000-05:00

As I get older, it's rare that I meet women who hate other women - who put off the chilly vibes that they don't like the company of other women or they don't have many female friends.

I feel like when we are younger and still figuring out who we are, what makes us confident and comfortable, we can be easily threatened by other women. (I will say here, however, that I don't think that was the case for me, because I was raised by an incredibly strong woman who taught me to love myself and be comfortable with who I am. By way of example, I once said I envied someone, and she stopped dead in her tracks and told me to never envy anyone and to be happy with who I am what I have.)

I am also a woman who has always had close girlfriends and easily connects with other women (well, usually just the ones who aren't high maintenance and have an unstoppable sense of humor). But then every once in a while, I meet a woman who will throw up a wall or turn her chin or press a pained smile in a cold reminder that she is intensely disinterested in any further interaction with you.

So why, I ask you, do some women just seem to hate other women? Is it a lack of confidence, a threat to who-knows-what, simply preferring the company of men? (Or - gasp - could it be that I am reading too much into it, that it's not all women... that it's just me they don't like?)

And why does someone like myself feel the need for said women to like me?

Editor's note: I write this vague and nebulous post because a) this was on my mind and b) unless you find reporting on decorative pillows and technology management (not in the same story) interesting, there's been little excitement in my life in the past few days.

Now I am off to join the shopping masses and try not to blow my brains out at Sears.

blurring the lines

2005-12-14T12:09:00.000-05:00

It seems like everything we watch on television these days is a commercial. Even if you are Tivo-ing the program.

Sure, the show might say it's the Ellen DeGeneres show (which, as we all know, I love) or Martha or the Today's show or even a local news program, but it's just a veiled commercial. Product placement isn't new, and as more and more people are recording their shows sans commercial breaks, the stealthy placement of the Pepsi can or the character rolling up in a Range Rover has increased and expanded. But now, we are seeing entire shows taken over by companies.

Take Ellen's segment 'To spend or save,' based on the American Express motto with prizes and trips funded by the company. What's worse was Martha Stewart's entire show recently dedicated to showcasing eBay items. And every morning, the Today's show devotes entire segments to plugging certain brands, veiled as holiday tips.

And now, at least one local morning program has become entirely advertainment.

From Minnesota Public Radio: "This spring [Minneapolis/St. Paul television station KARE] will be the first in the nation to convert its long-running morning news show into a long-running commercial, called "Showcase Minnesota." You'll see anchor hosts sitting in comfy chairs, with guests snuggled next to them, to talk up the latest in food, fashion and gadgets. Guests will pay to be on the new show and the anchors will act like inquisitive hucksters."

Revenue, revenue, revenue. Sure, I got it.

But this trend makes me increasingly uncomfortable. Most people understand these shows to be entertainment or news (or in many cases, a combination of the two), not commercials. As the MPR story puts it, the shows become just an hour of segments sold to the highest bidder masquerading as programming. It's like those pages in magazines that are modeled after articles, but that say "Advertisement" quietly at the top so people understand what they are reading. Perhaps these shows should have the same tag. Right under the "Live" logo, it should say "Advertisement" or "Advertainment." Or more appropriately, the shows - really, just glorified infomercials - should stay on late night cable channels, rather than dressing up as a morning news program to push products.

It just seems like this is another piece of the degradation of news media, though it might be a stretch to call these programs news in the first place. But if you replace the morning news programs with commercials modeled after such shows and the mid-day entertainment shows with commercials - stealthily veiled as the Martha show - our world on television becomes nothing but commercials (and well, reality shows). I understand print media already has massive corporate pressures that often seep into the editorial, but if this type of advertorial TV program persists successfully, what happens to print media?

a question

2005-12-12T22:40:00.000-05:00

This crucial question, which I have pondered from time to time, was best articulated by my friend CK. (I have to quote her here, because the way she said it was really funny):

"Do awkward people know they are awkward, a la do white trash people know they are white trash?"

I am not quite as concerned about the white trash debate (and I apologize if anyone is offended by this term, it's all in good fun), but am more wondering about awkward people. (The definition of awkward is loose here - just those people who make certain situations uncomfortable for people like me, who admittedly talk incessantly to avoid weird silences.)

As a follow up, are awkward people only awkward to people like myself? Similarly, after an awkward situation, do awkward people say, "Man, that was so awkward." Or do they say, "Hmm, that was totally normal, although she kind of talks a lot."

I just thought I'd throw that out there. Please feel free to debate.

Yankee Swap, Jr.

2005-12-12T10:02:00.000-05:00

Perhaps a bit inspired by my Thanksgiving post, a friend of mine threw a Yankee Swap party this weekend, which I must say went swimmingly, especially since the rules were a little different that I'm used to.

Rather than allowing each person to open a gift and then survey the previously opened gifts before deciding to keep it or swap, the person had to make that dire decision before unwrapping a gift. So if you saw something you think you wanted, you had just blindly risk it all and yank it from your friend's fingers.

As Yankee Swaps go, I got screwed. I drew No. 2, and basically had little power to determine my gift receiving destiny. I tossed out conventional wisdom - and my own campaign to not acquire more things that take up space in my tiny apartment - and went for the biggest box. Inside were two beanie babies - one Pillsbury Doughboy and one bear with a "November" patch on his chest - and an artsy calendar I still haven't figured out how to work.

Other gifts included a Christmas CD from the New Kids on the Block (surely a classic), a starter log and a bag of chestnuts (complete with a soundtrack cued as she opened the package), a re-gifted wedding photo album (sans pictures from the discarding couple), and dominos (from me, which I'd argue was one of the best gifts, supported by the fact that the recipient drew No. 1 and didn't trade it).

Sure, I grumbled a bit about my beanie babies, but they certainly grow on you. I took them to a bar later in the night, and they were a hit. (My friends and I kept introducing them to people, as if they were our friends, and I actually overheard one guy say to his friends, "Those girls are crazy.") See photo.

In line with this holiday-themed post, allow me to give a shout out for the Jews - and really any other religion besides Christianity. See, it's this time of year that all the non-Gentiles are forgotten. Christmas music serenades shoppers, trees light up public plazas, and the incessant jingling of the Salvation Army is peppered with "Merry Christmas"s. It's true - the majority of Americans celebrate the holiday, but let's not forget those who aren't quite as pumped about the birth of Christ.

I say with the caveat that my mom was Catholic, my dad Jewish, so we did both. In April, we had a Seder one night, and hunted for our Easter baskets another. In December, we lit the Hanukkah lights days before running downstairs to see what Santa left us. Sounds confusing, but I think I turned out alright....

Anyway, I just think we should all be more mindful of our non-Christian brethren as we anxiously await - and shop, cook and travel for - that special anniversary of Jesus' nativity. (Easy way to modify behavior: Try a "Happy Holidays" rather than the more traditional "Merry Christmas".)

I'd also like to request that we all try to temper the runaway consumerism that accompanies this season. I become nauseated hearing the TV personalities count down shopping days before the Big Day. There must be four Today's Show segments each morning dedicated to hot new tech toys this, what to get a hard-to-shop-for man that. Maybe because I don't have a steady job, and money's tight, or maybe 'cause I don't really dig on the JC, but I don't just like the idea of breaking the bank in the name of Jesus. Instead, all my friends are getting mixed CDs (yay! Surprise! Merry Christmas!) and I am hoping to focus the day on being home and eating and drinking with friends and family. That I can do for our man Christ.

Editor's note: I think I do this every year - rage against the consumerism of the holidays, always to no avail. One woman's rant does little to change the tide of American commodities-driven sentiment, but it still needs to be said.

a post a day - that might be pushing it

2005-12-08T22:23:00.000-05:00

When I first started this whole blogging shenanigans, I had a few folks tell me I should blog every day, so that people would read it more regularly. That, and to keep it short, which is virtually impossible for me.

So, in my new-found effort to post daily (brought to you in part by sheer boredom and cold weather), here's what is on my mind tonight:

Sure it's probably pretty weak to start with the weather, but Chicago did just have something of a snowstorm tonight. Highlights include 6 to 9 inches (complete with a Snow Advisory, breaking it to folks, in case they haven't noticed, that we are getting a lot of snow) and a plane skidded off the runway at Midway. I know this because a Fox News Alert cut into the last minute and a half of the OC, which to me is a sin punishable by death. Sure, it's breaking news, but let's recap. It's snowing heavily, so a skidding plane might just not be that unusual. Had it been 77 degrees and sunny, this might be more of a news event. And sure, a few folks were injured, but seriously, does that warrant cutting off 'scenes from the next'? (If it turns out that people were seriously injured or killed, I will delete this post immediately and ... well, feel really, really bad. Call me insensitive or a bad news judge, but I am just a little miffed right now.)

addendum: Turns out, a 6-year-old boy was killed, so indeed this was a tragic news event. And yes, I feel bad for whining about the OC. Let's all move on.

addendum 2: Speaking of plane crashes and news judgement, what about the crash Tuesday that killed more than 100, mostly journalists, in Tehran, Iran? Nope, probably didn't hear much about that one. I'm just sayin'... That discussion might be for another day.

And my lovely alma mater's listserv was blowing up again today with the announcement of a new J-school Dean. The fuss was because the dean-to-be vowed to better integrate the marketing school and the journalism school, which threw many alumni into a tizzy. My two cents are that the reporting side needs to know more about the business of journalism, readership, trends. These things, the bread and butter of the marketing side, are crucial to the newspaper industry's success, and if the J-school can utilize some of the resources already there, I say do so. But know, that this is one of the best J-schools in the country, and the faculty and certainly the alumni will not stand for any line blurring between marketing and journalism. Take that as a personal threat, Mr. New Dean.

My fellow J-schoolers who did the global quarter this fall (which, if you are new here, I did in the spring, hence the birth of this blog), are packing up and coming home. I am shocked it's over for them so quickly and relieved that my friend in Caracas is making it out alive. Knock on wood.

I also just realized it's a little more than four weeks until I ship off to Honduras. (Yikes!) I have been practicing my Spanish - today I reviewed the past imperfect tense and entertainment vocabulary. (Jugaba el futbol. I used to play football.... That's right, I'm pretty much fluent already.) By the way, if anyone wants to come down to Honduras in February, I have built in a week to travel after the program.

Yep, that's all I've got. C'mon, folks. Not every post can be Pulitzer material. Post a day? Not likely.

Dear Abby?

2005-12-07T21:55:00.000-05:00

For some reason, I have always been that friend that others come to for advice, usually relationship advice. Perhaps because I will be unforgivingly honest. Perhaps I am a good listener, and take great pains to not bring my own feelings into the mix. Perhaps because I might be somewhat perceptive about the dynamics between the sexes, and have some experience with dating, both casual and serious. Either way, my girlfriends, my brother, they all come to me. In fact, a friend called me her own personal Dear Abby today.

In fact, my first pseudo-journalism job was an internship at this ultra-crappy, barely-known monthly paper in Boston called InSite. One day, I was telling my editor that I always seem to be doling out advice and that I should have my own column. And he bit. And so was born the short-lived "Miss Lonely Hearts."

The introductory column started with a lengthy (and somewhat embellished) explanation as to why you should listen to me. Here's an excerpt: "... chances are, if I haven't tried it myself, I have seen it all before. I have sweated the most popular guy, fell in love at first sight, had my heart broken into tiny pieces all over the kitchen floor after a candlelit dinner. I have dated the jerks, the drug users, the smart homely type, and the guys who haven't yet figured out how to work the telephone. And I am no stranger to sex. I have dabbled in techniques, threesomes, men and women, and perfected Cosmo's version of the Kama Sutra."

Yes, only some of that is true, like the kitchen break-up. I had cooked that sucker dinner too. But I digress.

The column goes on to dish about one girl who thinks she is a lesbian, a woman wondering how to be more outgoing, and one uncomfortable with the notion of vibrators. My editor titled each section cleverly, such as "Lez or fess (up)?" and "To pee or not to pee, that is the question," and "Boyfriend or psycho date from hell".

It was a lot of fun, but since no one read the rag, no one wrote in, and so it quickly fizzled. I would LOVE to be able to do a relationship column again one day.

Why am I writing about this? Not sure. All I know is that I continue to be a source of relationship advice, and I certainly enjoy it. So, if anyone reading needs advice, hit me. But chances are you have already called me, and I have said something along the lines of "If you want to see him, call him and ask him out." or "You only thought he was cute because he thought you were/you were drunk/his friends weren't cute." or "If he doesn't call, he's probably gay."

I'll end this post with an open letter to my hairdresser, who I saw today:

Dear Joel,

You are a genius. You possess magical skills, almost like the scissors are an extension of your perfectly artistic hands - like Edward Scissorhands but not creepy and spastic.

You love your job, and it shows. The best moment is when you are cutting my hair, and you stop for a second and this smile comes across your face that says "Man, I am so good at this, and by golly, I have really done it this time!"

You are open-minded and adventurous and always share my vision for what my hair should look like. You are also fun to chat with, and I always enjoy myself and feel beautiful and fierce when I leave.

Should I ever move from Chicago, which seems inevitable, I will miss you dearly and await the day when I am rich enough to fly you to wherever I am to do my hair.

See you in a few weeks for a touch-up on my bangs,

Sara

how old is too old? ... and other random thoughts.

2005-12-06T00:01:00.000-05:00

I spent much of my evening tonight workshopping my family relationships, or in other words, being a total babypants.

I'll spare you the too-personal details, which involve an expected reaction to my holiday plans that was replaced with something of a feeling-bruising reality of logistics-this and calendar-checking-that. Now, deep down I know I am always welcome home for the holidays. They want me there, and I can stay as long as I want.

But when it's been more than eight years since I have lived at home, the dynamic surely changes. I left for college, and literally the next day, the stuff I didn't take with me was packed up in the attic and my room was repainted and rented out (I lived above the garage my last year of high school). Which is fine. I moved. I didn't need a room.

But from that day on, my house became less and less my house and more my dad's (et al's) house. I don't live there. I visit. I didn't move back after college, and until a couple years ago, my visits were ultra-short. Plus, my situation is made a little more complicated by the fact that we are a blended family (I think that's today's euphemism, right?) and I continue to struggleto feel a part of the family in it's current form.

Regardless, it's my guess that everyone faces this as they get older, where you don't live at home but you don't have a home of your own yet. I am not married, no children, no home to buy a Christmas tree for or throw a New Year's party at. But, I don't live with my dad, et al.

So how old is too old to expect to go home - to the home where you grew up, that is - for two weeks? When are we supposed to be grown up enough that our friends travel to spend New Year's with you, rather than just meet at home where everyone is shacking up with their folks? How old is too old to dredge up family drama, demanding certain concessions, rather than simply getting over the fact that family is family and there is just nothing you can do to change them?

Similarly, how old is too old to put presents under a tree labeled "From: Santa" to be opened on Christmas morning, after digging though a stocking stuffed with little nic-nacs and the requisite orange?

And on a related note, is there such thing as a quarter-life (mid-20s) crisis? If so, I think I'm there... you know, where you don't know what you want to (continue to) do with your life, you don't have an established home, you feel all kinds of lost and a little lonely and a lot confused?

****

On an unrelated note, here's a little mindless, shallow, drivel, as promised:

-- I am crushed about Nick and Jessica's separation. For weeks, I have been ignoring the news of it, waiting for their respective spokespeople to come out and say, "Oh get off it! The couple has not and never will separate!" Well, that day never came. And now it's official. I feel more sad about that than I do about Brad and Jennifer breaking up. I mean, who could love Jessica and put up with her shit like Nick did; and what does he have if he doesn't have her - not a career, that's for sure.

-- Much like what happened with my feelings toward Jessica Simpson, my hatred for Lindsay Lohan was so intense that it circled around and has morphed into like. Would one call that "liketred" like hatred? Just wondering.

-- As much as I like Maureen Dowd and think she is a clever writer and a very beautiful and sexy woman to boot, she is terrible at interviews. Painful. She is awkward and tense and kind of cold. But I still like her.

-- The debate about whether blondes or brunettes have more fun is ridiculous. I know you are asking, do people give a shit? and Who is still debating this? Good questions, yes. But somewhat in jest, my friend CK and I struck up this debate this weekend after she dyed her hair back to brown. I argue she wasn't a full blonde (mainly highlights) to start with, but for the sake of the social experiment, we overlooked that. The verdict (according to just my observation): she had equal fun. Why? Because she is fun and enjoys life. Just as I do. As a brunette. Case closed. And when it comes to men's preferences, my guess is it's like breast size: They may say they have a preference, but when it comes down to brass tacks, they couldn't care less.

-- I was assigned a story today loosely based on a one of those corporate self help books about habits of effective people. Does anyone actually read those books (besides me, which will have to happen for the sake of reporting)? Is it passed around Corporate America with a Post-It note reading "Check this out. Riveting stuff - I wouldn't be a CEO without it!"?

a flashback

2005-12-03T23:06:00.000-05:00

My brother called me tonight and said he came across the memoir I wrote for an intro communications class in college. It's about our mother. I wrote it seven years ago, which is hard to believe. He suggested I post the story on my blog, since it really only exists as the paper copy he found and the saved Word document on an old disc I dug up just now. And I guess sometimes, it feels like if it's not on the Internet, it doesn't exist.... Anyway, I thought that to be a good idea.

Now, I know that I promised one of my loyal readers that I would dedicate at least one post to sheer smut, pop culture, mindless drivel - you know, the kind of writing that gets people to comment. Well, that'll be next, but the timing seemed right to post this memoir.

A couple words of caution, should you choose to continue: It's long. It's kind of sad. And it does reference woman stuff. If you don't want to read it and get all down and personal, that's OK. Just wait a bit and I'll post mindless drivel. (Oh and please remember I wrote this in 1998, which the help of an amazing professor who I often credit for my entering journalism, since she was the one - after working with me on this piece - that I should consider it. Anyway, here it is.

It is a sticky Alabama afternoon. I have this heavy feeling in my stomach, and I can feel my heart thumping loudly in my chest. What am I going to do now? I have already cleaned my entire room, watched TV until my eyes were sore, and even thought about picking up Kidnapped. I am supposed to have it read for school in the fall, but the picture of the ship on the front just looks so boring. And the letters are so small.

My hand pushes the pen in circles that curl around into my name on the paper. It looks so elegant. I can hear the girls next door squealing and laughing in their playhouse with the bright teal cloth roof that peaks over our fence in the backyard. What a hideous color green next to the trees.

I force up the window stiff from layers of dried paint and catch a slight breeze, my mind wandering to the days when I could look around me and smile, not a care in the world.

***

The breeze tickled my face carrying with it the sweet smell of ripe fig trees and hints of my mother's clean shampoo. It was the smell of a childhood summer afternoon, when you worried the sun might never set and surrender the unrelenting heat of the day.

"And the season's, they go round and round," my mother sang softly. It was always the same song, always my favorite: a song that found a smile through tears and battled off the monsters in my nightmares.

"I know you aren't going to let me sing all by myself, sweet pea," she smiled peacefully, but I always like it best when she sings it alone. I tugged impatiently at my overalls while she licked her thumb and instinctively wiped the remains of a chocolate popsicle from my cheek.

"Shhh, do ya hear it?" I nudged my mother's knee as I leaned forward to see the big Maxx bus coming down the road. As it passed, I threw out a toothy smile and the two of us waved enthusiastically.

These afternoons had become a ritual for my mother and me. As five o'clock approached, we forgot the world around us and retreated to the front steps of the house. Here under the deep blue sky, we would sit together humming songs, sharing laughter and anticipating the daily wave from the bus driver, whom I know awaited our smiles. The five o'clock bus meant my dad's silver Gremlin would soon follow.

***

I can't really concentrate, but then, I am not sure what I need to be concentrating on. Anything really. Anything to keep my mind busy. It is so hot outside. It would seem like torture to be out there, yet this house doesn't offer much refuge either. It is so quiet, maybe I will put some music on, but I don't even know what I want to listen to. My fingers drum on the desk as I look out the window, amazed at how many things that have already happened this summer. And it is not even August.

***

It was late in the day when I finally rolled myself out of bed. The house was empty and I lay in the warm bed, avoiding the responsibilities of the day. My mom had been in the hospital for a few days so Dad had taken over the household duties lately, struggling to maintain the equilibrium of the family for my brother and me.

He tried his luck in the kitchen, relying on frozen fish sticks and bagged mixed veggies, a far cry from my mother's creative meals. On top of his demanding position at the hospital, his days were compounded with carpooling, grocery shopping and picking up his shirts from the cleaners.

Still in my underwear with no plans of interrupting my laziness, I shuffled downstairs to the kitchen for the bowl of Rice Krispies. I stopped by the bathroom on my way to occupying my lanky, eleven-year-old body with television until someone came home, filling me in on my own tasks for the day before we went to visit Mom.

I sat down on the toilet and caught a glimpse of something foreign: a small dark spot in the middle of my panties. I blinked, took a deep breath and looked closer, still there. A wave of panic ran through my body. I went directly to the top shelf of the cabinet where I had bashfully stashed a box of maxi pads my mom gave me months before with the brief you'll-be-a-woman-soon talk.

After sticking one to my panties, I stood up, feeling the unfamiliar pillow between my legs. What the hell do I do now? With my mom unreachable in the hospital, I had no choice but to page my dad.

"Uh...Dad, I... um, I think I just started my period," I mumbled, my face hot with the mortification of saying these words to my dad, who had always seemed so distant to the development of his daughter.

"What you, oh, wow. Well," he hesitated, swallowing a nervous chuckle and searching for the appropriate words. I could almost picture him on the other end of the line, overwhelmed with my call. "Congratulations! Do you know what to do?"

"Yeah, dad. I just want to go see Mom." I fiddled with the phone cord, my fingers trembling. Congratulations? God, what a nightmare.

"OK, I'll be home soon," he said. I hung up the phone and sat there with a thickness in my pants, nervous of the confrontation with my dad and a little angry that my mother wasn't in the next room for this.

***

I look around my room. Something to do. I have always had the same room, with the same view, even arranged the same way, with my huge queen size bed jutting out from the wall and taking up most of the floor space. My mom used to want to put a lace canopy on the long wooden posts, and I dreaded the idea. She also used to want so desperately to braid my hair, but I felt like Pippy Longstocking and her tugging at my hair always made me cry. So she promised to pay me a dollar each time I let her do it, saying I looked like her little princess. I guess a dollar was a lot to me then, but not enough endure the hair braiding.

Mornings carried a dance of familiarity for my mother and me. My father would welcome in my day with a tap on the door and a good-morning whisper, my cue to tiptoe into their bedroom. I would crawl into the tall bed and sling my eight-year-old body on top of my mother, her soft, round stomach cushioning me. I laid my head on her warm chest and listened to her breathing while she watched the morning news. Her smooth fingers combed through my hair. I could smell the coffee on her breath as she asked if I had sweet dreams the night before. I would lie there in the ritualistic comfort of my mother until my dad would call from the bathroom where he fixed his tie and brushed his teeth, reminding me to get dressed for school.

As the cancer slowly takes pieces of my mother from me, my visits to her bedroom grow infrequent. The warm, inviting feel of the room was replaced with a thick air of sickness. The room smells stale and lifeless, as if the slices of sunlight from the windows can't compensate for the shadows of the disease.

The bed, which hasn't been made for weeks, reminds me of the chaos of the moment. Half-read books and reading glasses are hidden among the plastic pill bottles, littering the bedside table. The words of Adrienne Rich and Anne Sexton are lost to the specific dosage demands of each medication. It is like this room doesn't belong to the house and was added on as a sinking reminder that something was just not right. The table against the wall holds old pictures, one of my parents' wedding 21 years before, the only time in his life that my dad shaved off his beard, smiling big next to my mother in her bravely short dress. The walls, painted a soft rose color to match the flowers on the comforter, doesn't breathe the life the house had always known.

I wander downstairs to the kitchen that carries a heavy silence, empty of her bellowing laughter while she talked on the phone and her orders to us to pick up our shoes from the bottom of the stairs. On the wall behind the stove she has painted a delicate wreath of flowers on the tiles, adding to the room her creativity that seem to touch every corner of the house.

Outside of the kitchen window I can see her herb garden, where rosemary, parsley and thyme were once pampered now remain thick with neglect. The garden, the teacup collection, the endless volumes of poetry, all linger while their creator lies in bed, slowly giving up. But as long as I avoid the bedroom, I can keep pretending that it is all a dream, and she will wake up one morning to coffee and the morning news and smile to her new health.

I am shaken from my thoughts as I hear my mother calling me into the bedroom where she is reading, making notes in the margins like any devoted writer does. My stomach feels even heavier as my feet drag me slowly upstairs, taking my time to hit every step evenly. She sits in the bed in her formless bright orange and pink nightgown, which she called a "moo moo". Seeing her in this blob of loud colors always brings a smile to my face.

"Oh sweet pea, I have so many things I want to say to you," she looks at me with her head tilted to the side and her eyebrows raised in concern.

She had given up on coloring her once-black hair and let the gray streaks frame her plump face, making her look so beautiful and wise. Her dark eyes are deep with experience, and her fingers, carrying engagement and wedding rings, are wrinkled with time. I fear I won't recognize her, as I look into her eyes, hazy with distance as it pulls her away. What if I can't see her strength and beauty I know, and that I only catch glimpses of when I look at myself in the mirror? I curl up into a ball and snuggle close to her, feeling her smooth skin that now drapes limply on her bones brush across my face. All I can do was shake my head, the tears flowing uncontrollably before either of us can speak.

"Sara, I know this is hard," she whispers, her thumb gently stroking my eyebrow, the way she did when she sang me to sleep. "And the painted ponies go up and downÂ" she would sing. My body shakes with anger and resentment. I close my eyes and imagine myself eight years old again, cuddling with my mother as we received the day.

"You have to be strong for your father and brother, Sara," she says softly.

This isn't how it is all supposed to happen. We have such big plans. She had promised to take me out to lunch as soon as she was well to celebrate my untimely first period. This is my mother who was supposed to take me bra shopping, giggle about my first boyfriend, and be there for my first child.

I sit up and looked at her. In front of me is the strongest woman I have ever known, and I realize that was what I was to become. All of the things she had ever told me, all the moments I took for granted, all the times we were cheated of seem to come together at once in her eyes.

"You know that you have to keep going, and become the most beautiful woman you can, the woman I have taught you to be." I shake my head. I am not even 12.

I don't really have anything good to report...

2005-11-28T19:27:00.000-05:00

... but I figured I'd write since it's been a few days.

The food coma of Thanksgiving has worn off, but I still have the general sluggishness of vacation. (I can hear you nay-sayers snickering, "aren't you on permanent vacation?" and "Oh yea, you needed a break from doing nothing all day." Well, I won't defend myself here with the "hey I work plenty" or "freelancing is hard!" So there.)

But the holiday was nice. I managed to eat my weight in turkey and apple pie, read two books cover to cover, get minimal exercise in the form of a walk by the ocean, play dominoes until my fingers calloused, stay indoors for an entire day - until about 10 p.m. when we drove to town to go to a bar. Good times, as always.

We also participated in what is known as the Yankee Swap, which I am sure my Southern readers - or really maybe all readers outside of the Northeast, or New Hampshire, or this one particular family who may have made it up for all I know - will not have heard of before. (And I find it funny that a bunch of Yankees are playing it, and it's still called Yankee Swap.) See, each person brings a gift - usually something they dug out of the closet, say, an old kite, already-read books, an old breadmaker; or sometimes strange and funny things, like a commando set complete with face paint, goggles and a camo hat, or a pencil box full of rocks, one labeled 'Spac Station.' (no kidding, that was an offering this year, typo and all). Each gift is wrapped - often in deceiving packaging - and placed in a pile.

Then each person draws a number from a hat, and starting from No. 1, each person picks a present and opens it. You can choose to keep it, or trade it for any gift opened before yours, and No. 1 gets the last pick after all are opened. So, perhaps you could say it's lucky to draw No. 1, and unlucky if you're No. 23... if you were even to use the concept of luck here.

Well, folks don't usually walk away with anything of value to their lives or others. Sometimes, you can snag something kitchy (like the leather crocodile doctor's bag I walked away with one year), something amusing (Mr. Potato Head was a hit this year) or something you can re-gift to someone outside of the family or rewrap for next year's swap (like the picnic backpack chock full of glasses, dishware and napkins, or the Assam - assman, to us - Teapot that will no doubt make some woman pleased this Christmas).

Let's see... This year, I wrapped a stack of books, some I had read and enjoyed, and one I didn't read and heard was crappy. And, after selecting No. 11 and losing the teapot in a trade, I walked away with a hardcover book called The Bird Watching Life Journal. Riiiight... I managed to leave it behind, as many family members sneakily do . (Picture, the host making sure each guest has left with his or her respective Yankee Swap gift, often wrestling it into reluctant hands or hiding it among washed out dishware or packed up leftovers.)

So goes the Yankee Swap. It's rowdy and fun, and once you understand the point, you won't get disappointed that you didn't walk away with something you'll use or that the three and a half minutes you had with that breadmaker, tea pot or Mr. Potato Head is really all that you were meant to have. That's how they do it in the Northeast.

insomnia

2005-11-23T13:55:00.000-05:00

I used to enjoy sleep. It used to be easy, a no-brainer. Night would come, I'd be tired, I'd lay down and before I knew it, it was morning again. I guess I took it for granted, thinking it would always be there, dreams and all. I used to be able to fall asleep in any conditions, on any surface, with any background noise, save for maybe a screaming child or heavy construction.

Now, not so much. For the past several months... oh maybe a year... sleep has not been so easy. I am now a light sleeper, I wake up early regardless of what time I finally drift off, and I just don't enjoy it like I used to. In fact, I have become such a bad sleeper, that sometimes I dread it. It makes me a tinge nervous knowing I get my hopes up to enjoy the much-needed upcoming rest but that I will inevitably be disappointed.

The other night, I woke up at about 4 in the morning to a soft rustling, almost clicking, sound. I could have sworn it was the sound of someone typing, clack-clack-clacking away on a laptop. I look around, and as expected, there was no such person typing away on my computer. I wandered to the cracked window, thinking I would see my neighbor - whose window is uncomfortably close - pounding away on a keyboard perched close to their open window. As I leaned toward the window, I realized the sound was the rustling of my houseplant's leaves, blowing gently in the fan. Leaves. That's what woke me up.

So a couple nights ago, I went to sleep exhausted and woke up not two hours later to the sound of my BF snoring. (In his defense, snoring might be a strong word. He could have been just breathing, simply sustaining life, and it woke me up.) Five and a half hours later, I was still awake, crazed from exhaustion and frustration. I had read 150 pages of my book, listened to Gregory Isaacs in my headphones three times over, and even tried laying still and envisioning every muscle relaxing as they do in yoga class. At about 7:30 a.m., I finally fell asleep, but then woke automatically a couple hours later.

The next night, I went to sleep again, nervous but hopeful. A couple hours later, I woke up alone, only to discover said BF was sleeping on the floor in the next room. I saw him there and for one second, felt guilt and relief. Of course I felt extremely bad that he was sleeping on the floor, sacrificing his comfort to ensure there were very few distractions to wake me from my shallow slumber. But for a second I debated not waking him up, thinking how nice it would be to sleep in a near-silent warm room. My guilt won, and I nudged him, but he insisted he was comfortable and that I just go back to bed. I did. I slept fine, not great, still waking up every couple hours just for the hell of it.

I am not sure what it will take to regain the power over sleep. I've tried writing lists of the things that keep me up, playing music, exercising heavily that day so that I am dead tired. Nothing works. I am hoping it's a phase....

wining and dining

2005-11-18T11:07:00.000-05:00

I went to meet two friends of mine from the global Paris seminar for dinner last night - we just started a tradition to meet every week or so in a new French restaurant, since our friendship grew from a love of Paris and of food. So when I get there, one friend was already seated and had ordered the wine.

Server: Can I get you something to drink, a glass of wine?

Me: Sure. (to friend) Hey, what are you drinking?

Friend 1: Bordeaux.

Me: Oh... hmmm... I'll just have a glass of Cabernet. Thank you.

Server (in painfully humorless you-must-be-an-idiot tone): Yep. That would be what she is having.

Me (wounded and a little mad): I apologize. I guess I know nothing about wine, and by your tone, that must have been a really stupid thing to say. I didn't realize Bordeaux and Cabernet were the same thing. Can you explain that to me?

Server (rambling, still humorless): Yes, something about grapes and regions and blends of this and that and yadda yadda yadda and clearly I don't really know what I am talking about but I like to make people feel stupid.

Right. The conversation went something like that. We ordered a bottle, and once she walked away I looked on the back label: 20 percent Cab, 70 percent Merlot and therefore 100 percent Bordeaux. Ok, friend, I may not fully understand, but I do know that 20 percent does not a Cabernet make. Maybe you could pass it off as a Merlot. I felt vindicated that I was not entirely wrong, and still annoyed at our crappy service. (But of course the exchange was fodder for laughs through the entire dinner: Thanks, I don't eat fish, so I'll have the grilled salmon for my entree. Or: No, thank you I don't like apples - I'll just have the apple tart for dessert.)

After dinner, I promptly called my BF, who actually does know a thing or two about wine and won't make you feel like an ass for not knowing, who explained to me that in fact, our server was a humorless ignoramous. See, allegedly French wine isn't like the wine we're used to (I personally prefer the Australian wines) - Merlot, Cabernet, Chardonnay - but in fact it's all blended. Chances are we won't get a 100 percent Cabernet, but a mix, and instead the server should have explained this and said something to the effect of, "The Bordeaux is a Cab-Merlot blend and will probably be the closest to what you are used to."

Well, the rest of the meal went well, although, as usual, we were the only table in the place laughing and having a good time. I thought we were going to have to take the pulse of the couple next to us. Sometimes I wonder why people go out to dinner if they are just going to sit there pouting, but then I also question why some people are servers, and make good money in a semi-swanky French spot, when they are really just jerks who barely cracks a smile. In the end, the manager was the only one who found us mildly refreshing, and in fact thanked us personally for coming and enjoying ourselves.

thoughts on Capote

2005-11-15T12:00:00.000-05:00

I saw the movie Capote last night, and walked away wondering this:

Truman Capote threw out all notions of journalism ethics by infiltrating the town for information and becoming very close with the convicted killer, using him for the sake of the story. The result was In Cold Blood, arguably one of the best American books ever written and the advent of a new genre - the non fiction novel. But, does that make it OK? Do the ends justify the means?

Similar ethical issues exist today, perhaps to a different degree, with arguably different stakes. What's more, the journalism landscape is more aggressive and the public (and sources) more skeptical. But how much of that still happens, and how far should you go - or can you go without sacrificing your integrity - for the story?

half-Jew or whole?

2005-11-13T12:00:00.000-05:00

Growing up, I never really questioned the legitimacy of my religion. I was raised Jewish, went to temple and Hebrew school and had a bat mitzvah. As a reform Jew, I understood that even though my mom was Catholic and my father Jewish, I was raised Jewish and therefore was Jewish. 100 percent Jew. Not half, not just sort of, but Jewish.

Now, I am finding some people don't think that's the case. Reform or not, the mother has to be Jewish for you to be, regardless of how many years I put it at the synagogue. Sure, I might have been bat mitzvah'ed but I don't go to temple now, I don't know all the funny Yiddish phrases and I often forget a holiday until I get a call from my father - so I must be a faker, a halvsie, a mere gentile. I met a Jewish woman last night wearing a shirt that said "Gefilte" with a picture of a fish under it. I got it, and I was immediately in, and she was ready to take me to all the Jewish volunteer events. But then I didn't get some obscure Jewish reference and I think I mentioned my mom was Catholic or that I was raised a Jew but am not practicing now (often my retorts when questioned on the veracity of Judaism claim), and I was out of the club just like that.

This seems to happen every once in a while. That and the look of shock and humor when I tell someone that I am a Jew from Alabama... "Wait, there are Jews in Alabama?!" I quip: "Yeah, I'm like one of three," which for the record is not true, as there was a substantial Jewish community in the 'Ham. But why bother? On the face of it, it may seem strange, but so does the idea of someone coming from Alabama, so what do I know?

So what makes a Jew? Growing up in the temple and being bat mitzvah'ed? Being born to a Jewish mother? Picking up on all the obscure Hebrew or Yiddish references tossed out at you like a test?

I guess I am just not sure where I fit in, and ultimately I have to figure it doesn't matter. For me, Judaism was a religion, not a culture, which I suppose precludes me from the joining the Real Jews Club. And after my bat mitzvah, I chose not to attend temple, participating only in holidays with my family. As I get older, I feel drawn back to it, but at the same time unsure of what extent (and a little overwhelmed by the clubbiness). If I just want to celebrate a few holidays or attend temple every once in a while, does that make me just a pretend Jew, a wannabe Chosen One, or is it a lost cause since I am allegedly only half Jewish and therefore don't really count to begin with?

*****

In a completely unrelated matter, I am embarking on something of a bathing experiment. See, after polling a few girlfriends (and even a few guy friends this summer in DC who owned up to their arguably girlie shower routines), I might be one of the only women who still uses just bar soap in the shower. No loofah, body wash, shave gel, face wash business. No clutter of dozens of bottles promising soft this and exfoliated that. Just shampoo and bar soap.

I grew up using Ivory, and never graduated to the scented scrubs and herbal washes of my fellow female (and male) bathers. It never bothered me, and in fact I delight in the low maintenance of a 4-minute shower. But now, I am curious.

I went to Walgreens this morning and dropped $20 on moisturizing body wash, shave gel, a loofah, lotion. The works. So for the next few days, I am going to trade in the bar soap for all the girlie business. I am not sure what I am expecting, or if I really even care, but it's certainly worth seeing what all the hype is about.

*****

And finally, it has once again been proven to me that I am terrible at trivia. Scratch that. I am mediocre at it. I went to a trivia game yesterday with some friends, and although my team (Team Smartification) was the funnest and by far the rowdiest, we were neither the winners (who banked the $200 pot) or the losers (who got free drinks from the bar). The team that won sat straight-faced in the corner, barely cracking a smile and looking generally bored and miserable. It turns out they are regular competitors, working the circuit of trivia games. They may have won, but they had zero fun.

Meanwhile, we came in a mediocre, average, unmemorable fourth. The group agreed that MC Ed's questions were ultra-obscure, but perhaps we were saying to make us feel smarter (or more smartified, as we said). To be sure, I did contribute at least one tough answer that flew over the other contestants' heads - What is the common name for H1N5? The bird flu.

Cleveland rocks!

2005-11-12T13:35:00.000-05:00

I am never one to shy away from the chance for a completely random and pointless road trip, so when the idea of heading to Cleveland came up a week or so ago, I was in. See, my friend CK had been mulling over a job opening at the alternative weekly there, Scene, and had been emailing constantly with a former Mediller who is a staff writer there.

Apparently the interviewing process for the Scene is getting wasted with the editor, which I haven't decided is awesome or pathetic and slightly misguided. Jury's out. But to consider the job and whether she wanted to be at an alt weekly, CK thought it'd be fun to truck out there and hang out with the Sceners. And as usual, I am the willing partner in crime.

But as the debate between alt weekly and daily continues, CK wound up taking a job at a daily, the weekly position was filled internally and all that was open was an editorial assistant position, which they realistically call mail sorter. So perhaps our reasons for the trip were fizzling, but then you know, why not go to Cleveland? I've never been to Ohio or driven through Indiana, and I just did not feel complete.

Thursday morning, we get in the car for a day of endless driving, stopping only for what the rest stop restaurant called a panini - which was in fact, an open faced chicken sandwich with lettuce on a toasted bun - and an Us Weekly and People magazines, which I read outloud, assuming the requisite different voices to match the riveting storylines.

We roll into Cleveland and pick up a six-pack of Miller Lite for our gracious host. We worried for a minute if it was going to be weird, spending the evening with people we don't really know, certified only by the Medill seal of approval, but here we were, feeling a little crazy but ready for the adventure. And right away when we met the kids from the Scene, we realized it was going to be fun.

The editor was pretty much everything they described him as - a 45-year-old Irish Catholic father of five who can drink any weathered sailor under the table (but doesn't touch the stuff on the weekend - he is a family man after all, he explained). He drinks only Canadian beer and anything with whiskey in it. He slips in and out of an Irish accent tinged with hints of Minnesota intonation. He bossed his young reporters around ("Have some class, and get these ladies a beer!"). He struck me as a somewhat washed-up though likely talented writer, who his young staff wanted to revere as a wise Hunter S. Thompson type as he expounded the finer points of writing (more alt weekly v. daily) and living life to the fullest. I am not sure I quite saw him that way, but I won't discount the fun of meeting him.

The next morning, we headed to IHOP for an egg sandwich and a daytime glimpse of America's heartland, the salt of the Earth, the country's slight majority. It felt very Midwest, very American, through and through. Sure Cleveland's liberal, right?, but I couldn't help but look around and realize this was America. These were the people that elected our president and set the tone of the so-called values and priorities of our country. No judgment here, it was just new to me.

Then it was off to experience Cleveland, which took all of an hour. We drove through downtown (35 seconds), stopped for photos in a park overlooking Lake Eerie (12 minutes) and stopped by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, bypassing the $20 admission and hitting the gift shop for Cleveland magnets (26 minutes). The downtown area was beautiful and spanking clean, like it was built yesterday and sandblasted this morning for the tourists. We never really found the area of restaurants, bars, shops that we knew must exist somewhere for the 20- and 30-somethings, but I think our time there gave us a nice slice of a city in America's heartland.

it's my birthday

2005-11-09T11:07:00.000-05:00

Last night for about three and a half hours, it was my birthday all over again.

A friend of mine who works at a swanky Chicago restaurant won a dinner for two at a similarly swanky spot. She chose me as her date, as I am a lover of food and dining and getting dressed up to go out. We went to Tru and told them it was my birthday, which I guess it kind of was.... just a little late. (For a second, it reminded me of the time she told the Karaoke DJ at Friar Tuck's that our names were Rose and Millicent and it was her birthday. Before we knew it, we were on stage and she was taking a Jagermeister shot out of the ass of a giant inflatable sheep ... but we didn't have to wait to sing our Karaoke song.)

Now, I have never eaten at a restaurant like this, and depending on who you're asking, Tru is ranked as the No. 1 (or No. 3) restaurant in Chicago. For the occasion, we went shopping at trusty, cheap, and always classy Forever XXI (yes, I know it's for 15-year-olds, but it's cheap and as long as I can still fit into the stuff, I'm gonna shop there), and got her a dress and me a shrug. Fancy.

We walk in the restaurant and are greeted by three men in suits, one with a thick French accent, there to take our coats and walk us to our table. The interior is decadent: plush blue velvet seats, tall ceilings, white walls spotted with art work - including an original Andy Warhol. I even got a tiny stool for my purse so it wouldn't have to rest on the floor.

We started with a glass of champagne, and I began to feel less and less like a total fraud sitting in a swanky four-star restaurant, knowing I can't pronounce half the stuff on the menu, wouldn't be able to choose the proper wine if my life depended on it and have no business spending any kind of substantial money on a meal. The place was stuffy, and every move was choreographed, down to the two servers simultaneously pouring water in our glasses. It was as quiet as a library, and the stiff-backed servers in their dark suits were constantly scanning the room, their eyes darting attentively. Although the formality of it made me a little uncomfortable at first, we eased into it, deciding it was still OK to laugh and enjoy ourselves, and even chat up the serving team (that's right, team - there must have been five guys waiting on us, and the fact that they treated us like queens helped relax me.)

We decided to do the chef's collection with wine pairing - nine tiny courses, each a surprise and different for the two of us. We started with the amuse-bouche - four bite-size treats, such as a mini-stack of potatoes and a shot of melon water. From there, we had the caviar staircase, which was gorgeously displayed on a glass tiered tray. I can't say I have really done caviar before, and this was perfect.

Now on to a couple fish courses - seared tuna and a crab salad - followed by a foie gras in chocolate sauce and lobster risotto with black truffle. Next up were two soups in capuchin cups, then halibut and hamachi, then lamb and beef rossini..... phew I am exhausted just recounting it all. These courses were followed by the cheese course, where we chose three from a massive cheese table the server wheeled over to us. After a shot of blackberry-passion soup, it was desert time - the course that seemed to never end, from the two desert plates to the table of tiny chocolate truffles and cookies to the silver of specialty chocolates.

None of my retelling do the food justice. It can't. Sure, I called the "Elysian Fields Lamb Loin and Chop, Roasted Cipollini Onions, Couscous, Pine Nuts, Lamb Jus paired with the Rockblock Syrah from Del Rio Vineyard" just "lamb," but if I detailed it how they did, my guess is your eyes would glaze over at the pages and pages of text here. But each course was rich and unique and exciting. There were flavors I have never had before, expertly prepared, each piece of the dish complementing the next. I don't think I could pick a favorite dish - or even a favorite course.

The marathon meal came to a whopping $450, not including the tip. Before dining there, I always said it was stupid to spend that kind of money on food, and I still contend that there are more urgent needs in the world for such funds - if not my rent money then the charity of your choice. That said, having the opportunity to live like someone who could afford such a meal for one night was a treat, and would be worth saving up to celebrate a special occasion. I didn't pay for it, so I am not having to assess if it was "worth it," but it certainly made me want to budget for another meal like that some day in the distant future, and for last night, it was the meal to top all meals. And I got to keep the menu, complete with a "Happy Birthday Sara!" on the top.

don't judge

2005-11-07T16:06:00.000-05:00

I love the Ellen DeGeneres show.

I think Ellen is hysterical. Her timing is perfect, her facial expressions are priceless and her strange segments are mindlessly enjoyable. I find myself laughing out loud at her show all the time.

I plan to write her a letter expressing my love for her show and how I think she would have a blast hanging out with me and my friends having dance parties (that's how she starts every show - amazing) and laughing non-stop. Maybe she'll give me a free trip to the Bahamas or fly me to LA for a taping and let me come on stage as her co-host.

Don't judge me until you've watched it.

the fate of this blog ...

2005-11-07T15:11:00.000-05:00

... has been under question for some time. I think I only have about two readers and I find myself recycling stories to those few who do read it (which is exactly why one of my best friends said she wouldn't read it). So I have had to chose my blog topics carefully, especially considering I am not dodging bullets in Caracas, and I often think it's just not worth it.

Then I said today, to hell with all that madness. So I am here to write some total crap that maybe one or two people might read, finding little need to comment on it, and then we can all just move on with our lives.

I have re-entered a phase of body image obsession. It's been a while, but my tendency to overthink my weight, what I eat and how much I exercise has crept back up. See, I like to think I am the kind of girl who can eat burgers and shwill beers like any dude, with little care of calories. And to a certain degree I am, but never far from the surface is the girl who used to be chubby and is horrified of being fat when she's older.

I once had a friend tell me it's stupid to watch what you eat and if you feel like you're gaining weight, just go for a run. That's easy for you to say, at maybe 115 pounds soppng wet with boots on. But the reality is I watched my mom struggle, which I want to avoid, and I too fall into the trap of believing thin is beautiful. (For the record, I am talking 5, 10, 20 pounds here, not obesity, which is a whole different issue and evokes completely different responses from me.)

When I went to Prague, I quit caring about all that and let myself eat whatever I wanted and drink enough beer to sate a sailor. I would bet the weight gain is barely noticeable, but it's brought me back to borderline obsession of counting calories, working out every day and feeling eater's remorse after an egg and bacon sandwich at Clark's.

For all that personal, self-reflective garbage I've dumped here, I'll throw in something a little more light-hearted. I went to a bar the other night that has a small dance floor and amazing dance-party music. On one side of the dance floor, these two guys had set up something like a you-got-served circle, but they were swinging their arms like they were manning two jump ropes. And people would take a running start and jump in between them to demonstrate their best moves. When someone would ignore the imaginary ropes and walk right between them, they would pause, look annoyed and lean down to slowly, in unison, pick up the ropes from the floor. It was awesome. Just as I mustered the courage to jump in, the song was over and they didn't pick pick up the ropes again. Probably for the better.

the bird flu personified

2005-10-30T18:22:00.000-05:00

Halloween is one of my favorite holidays - can you call it a holiday? - of the year, and much thought and care goes into my costumes. Often, women tend to throw clever out the window and use Halloween as an opportunity to dress slutty (Meangirls, anyone?) by donning some fishnets, a bustier, and maybe some ears or horns. Guys on the other hand usually just slap on a fake mustache and polyester jacket and call themselves a pimp, or this year, Ron Burgundy.

That's not really my speed. Like the good, nerdy journalist I am, I like to look to the headlines for inspiration.

This year, my friend CK and I dressed as the bird flu. We crafted chicken wings tied to our arms and an orange feather plume and tail. Then we wrapped ourselves in bathrobes, slid on a pair of slippers and made a necklace of flu medication labels. The kicker was wearing medicine bottles around our necks with the word Tamiflu scrawled over it.

Most folks got it, and thought it was hysterical. One guy who didn't revealed he hadn't read a newspaper since 2001 (that was the end of that conversation) and another girl stared at me blankly and then said quite frankly she had never heard of the bird flu and had no idea what I was talking about. (My screaming, "But it's a pandemic!" - our catch phrase for the night - did little to jog her memory.)

Other amazing costumes of the night included donning a homemade pair of waders (you know, those tall rubber boots for fishing) and carrying an oar to be Roe v. Wade. Another friend of mine wore a hot black dress with a red bow and a tag that read "To: Men, From: God")

getting in touch with my inner grandma

2005-10-26T21:34:00.000-04:00

I have turned over a new leaf. I have decided to take those goals I have in the back of my mind (and on a piece of notebook paper, titled "Things to do before I die, or sooner"), and get to work.

I started a jogging regimen. Regimen might be a strong word, as today was the first day of running, if you could call it that.

I plan to sign up for a black and white darkroom developing class starting next week.

And perhaps most exciting - I learned to knit. That's right folks. I have been wanting to for a long time. I was even given a how-to book for Christmas last year, but in classic Sara fashion I would pick it up, try a couple stitches, mess up and put the needles away. (Kind of like the time, at age 13, I wanted to be drummer Lars Ulrich, got a set, took lessons, and realized my brother was perhaps more musically inclined than I, and quit. Or the figure skating: I was struggling on the axle (that's a jump, people), got bored and quit.)

I digress. Again, new leaf. And so far, the knitting was really fun. It's not quite relaxing yet, though, as I am finding I am clenching my jaw in concentration as I knit, but I expect that to change. I managed to stitch a ten-row patch. At this rate, everyone in my family is getting 3-inch pot holders for Christmas. "Oh, ignore the holes and the stray loops sticking out on the side - it's for holding a tiny, thin pot handle!"

But I am determined not to throw in the needle this time. Before you know it, Martha Stewart is going to have me on her show for segment on scarves, stockings, sweaters....

sad state of journalism affairs

2005-10-25T12:29:00.000-04:00

Here are a couple not-so-encouraging media-related news items today, courtesy the SPJ daily email. Wow.

Newspaper columnist Ann Coulter confessed in a speech that she's "not a big fan of the First Amendment," according to E&P. She apparently "criticized the media for being liberal and Democrats for whining about their rights under the First Amendment. 'They're always accusing us of repressing their speech,' she said. 'I say let's do it. Let's repress them.'"

The Newark Weekly News has entered a $100,000 contract with the city council to publish only positive news about the city. The owner says he is providing the city a service. "Do we have invesigative reporters? No. Our niche is the good stuff," he said, according to The Star-Ledger. The paper can only generate stories based on ledes from the council and the mayor's office.

what the listserv issue was really about

2005-10-19T21:40:00.000-04:00

More important than the ensuing debate on the appropriate "netiquette" for blogs and listservs was the topic of the initial post, which made it in the Chicago Tribune today.

See, if you'll recall, a woman had posted a note looking for a media consultant. Little did she realize, I suppose, she was sending this request out to a bunch of news-hungry sharks who jumped on the story. Sure, this CEO who needs image help may not be a big honcho, but now we are all fiercely looking out for him.

As the Tribune's Phil Rosenthal puts it:

"Unfortunately for Pamela Cramer, whose name was on the request--and for the unnamed CEO--it turns out Medill has produced a fair number of actual reporters and editors, some of whom were more interested in uncovering more about the pending tax case than in helping to buff up the accused's image. Shocking, no?"

Oops, Pamela.

OK that is the last I will mention this little listserv debacle. ... Unless something else interesting comes up.

One more thing - As we all remember the Internet is in no way anonymous, also remember that no one cares. It is a massive, massive web of billions of people writing about billions of things posting billions of stories, musings, pictures. In the end, no one cares. In the end, no one (except perhaps journos and those on the listserv) really cares about Pamela or about my own words on the topic.

I kind of wish I cared about baseball

2005-10-19T12:28:00.000-04:00

So the Chicago White Sox are going to the World Series, and people here are just nuts over it.

I know a kid who got tickets to Game 1 this weekend. Apparently his roommate knows someone. I read today that one guy wanting tickets offered to give up his kidney - you're choice, right or left - for tickets. One woman offered nudie pictures. Some tickets were reselling for $15,000. They sold out in 18 minutes. Crazy, I tell you.

I wonder, is there anything in this world I would pay that much money - or at least the few hundred dollars others are paying - to see? My max was dishing out $100 for Prince show in Atlanta, and shoot, I'd do that again, and maybe even double it. I was close to paying out that much to see Bon Jovi, but came to my senses.

Perhaps if I was more of a sports fan, I would understand. My inaugural baseball game was the Boston Red Sox at Fenway Park when I was in college. As amazing and historic and yadda, yadda, yadda as that park was, I recall it being an excruciatingly boring game. And that was even after drinking a 40 oz. of malt liquor before the game. Gross.

A few years later (this summer) I went to a Nationals game in DC, and surprisingly had a blast - and I think it was more than the beer and the company that made it fun. The game was actually entertaining. But would I pay $100 or $300 or $15,000 to see it? Give up a kidney? Not a chance.

the joys of the journalists' listserv

2005-10-18T21:57:00.000-04:00

A request was sent out on Medill's alumni listserv today, seeking a media consultant to develop a Martha Stewart-style plan for a top Chicago CEO facing a federal tax indictment later this week.

What ensued was more than two dozen responses from Medill alumni, some suggesting what the CEO should do ("how about coming clean?"), but most debating what is appropriate for a listserv.

One respondent said it should NOT be a "forum for glib pronouncements," and reminding everyone that it is an indictment, not a conviction.

Another suggested the listserv not be used for the "the recruitment of hired hands to massage the image of those facing federal indictment." This promptly stoked the fire of the debate with alumni weighing in on what, if any, rules govern the listserv. One person reminded the list we are journalists, and stifling free speech is "repulsive."

Most responses after that agreed, saying they enjoyed the spirited debate, as I certainly did. (Especially considering these are some hot-shot Chicago journalists.) At one point, the conversation veered back to the lecture at hand - the CEO - and several agreed to keep an eye on the morning papers to see just who this person is. Interestingly, one respondent even mused who would get the story first, considering that the listserv was essentially a tip, and just what path that tip took before it reached the papers.

a few things I learned from being home

2005-10-18T15:25:00.000-04:00

So I spent a few days in the 'Ham, and here are a few things I learned:

1. Yard sales are ten times more fun when you follow your 8 a.m. cup of coffee with four beers, all before noon ... But items marked for $5 quickly become, "Oh I don't care, you can have it."

2. Everyone I know from my high school years is engaged or married... (except for one friend who is about to be divorced). Although it makes me feel a little old and scared, it's nice to see said friends and realize nothing has changed.

3. My step-sister and I may never be best friends, but she did look me in the eye this time, which, sadly, is progress.

4. Our siblings will always know just what buttons to push to make us completely lose our ever-loving mind. And they will do so, often unwittingly, for the rest of our lives.

5. It is essential in life to surround yourself with people that make you laugh and that bring out the funniest in you. (You know you're doing good when you find yourself thinking, 'Man, we should have our own show.')

6. Sunday night steak dinners, eaten while sitting on the front porch drinking wine and telling stories, is one of the greatest parts of my trips home.

7. It's true what they say - You can take the girl out of the South, but you can never take the South out of the girl.