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.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Are you a hobbier?
For my new job, I had to write a short paragraph about myself that they could run in the paper, introducing me along with the other new hires.
The HR woman gave me a handout with a few examples to give me an idea of what to write. They were all pretty straight forward - So-and-so comes to us from the Other Publication where she was an ad exec, blah blah blah. Here she will be doing this and this.
But then there was a line that included the person's hobbies: "When she's not working, she can be found jogging and buying produce at the roadside stands." (Not kidding, that was really one.) Or: "So-and-so, a mother or two, enjoys painting and kayaking."
Well, I was stumped. All of a sudden, I couldn't think about any hobbies I had. What do I do in my free time? I couldn't feasibly write "In her spare time, Sara can be found lounging around her hot ass apartment, sweating and drinking moderately-priced domestic beers." I just didn't seem appropriate.
Do I really have any hobbies? I tried knitting, and dropped it after a couple months. I don't play on any sports teams, I am not an avid cyclist or the likes, and I don't coach little league. I have friends who rock climb regularly; my boyfriend designs computer programs in his spare time; another friend trains for triathlons.
Is my life totally void of hobbies? Is it true that some people are just hobbiers, and tend to pour themselves into some extracurricular activity, when others are happy doing, well, nothing?
But then, talking it over with some friends, we began to debate just how you define a hobby, versus, say, a pastime. I mean, I love to read. But does that constitute a hobby, or is it just a pastime? Watching television is arguably similar - but I wouldn't give it hobby status.
So we determined a hobby must be something that you do regularly, that you are interested in enough to network with other people about or read trade journals on or join a club for. For example, I am often asking people for good books to read, and I have always wanted to join a book club (now I wish I had, so that I could have included that on my new job bio.)
Pastimes are less involved, like watching TV, hanging out with friends, playing Scrabble.
Either way, I am unsatisfied with my lack of legitimate hobbies. Nothing seems to have a level of frequency - such as traveling, tubing, hiking - to constitute a hobby, and others have a level of ridiculousness when claimed as a hobby - dancing, blogging, drinking beer.
Perhaps it's time for me to pick one and stick with it, and then join a club or network of sometime to further legitimize it. I am taking suggestions.
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.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Time to go shopping for new business casual
It's official: I am employed.
Finally. A job. A real life, full-time, paying job.
As some of you might recall, I interviewed with a place a few weeks ago. It went great, I met everyone, and I thought I was as good as hired. But then many long anxious days pass, and a mind-scrambling back and forth ensues - give us story ideas, now make them better and gives us new ones, ok now do a test story for us, ok now sit by the phone and wait and go slowly crazy, ok now be patient because we are going through budget talks and we'll let you know soon.
But I kept on them, and finally yesterday they asked me to stop by the office. The editor coyly asks me how I am feeling. I say anxious. He asks me if I want to work there. I say yes, and he says, well you're going to, and hands over an envelope with the offer letter.
Phew.
So we chat, I tell him I feel good about it, but that I need to look at the details and think it over and will call them. I took my offer letter home (tearing into the envelope before getting back to my car), bought a 12-pack and invited a friend over and proceeded to get drunk in the middle of the afternoon.
This morning, I tried my hand at a little salary negotiation, which didn't really go as planned. I knew I'd be taking a cut going back to newspapers, but then when it became a reality and I could see the numbers on the page, I felt disappointed, a little crestfallen, and I guess a little frustrated. Sure, I had hoped for more, and I had gotten pretty comfortable this last year of freelancing for magazines and traveling and living the life of relative luxury. But it took a little reminder that this is indeed why I decided to go back to grad school and that I believe in this publication and my desire to be a part of a newspaper.
The fact that I am getting paid less, but shelling out tons more each month paying off these stinking grad school loans, stings. My father keeps saying it was an investment in my future, and it was worth it, and I wanted this and I followed it. I am hoping he's right, and leave it to my dad to put it all into perspective.
Plus, I'm just being a baby about it. Truth is, I really wanted this job regardless and I am really excited to be doing daily reporting again.
So on Tuesday morning, I will get up and shower and dress and eat a bowl of cereal and go to work at an office. It's been two years since I've done that (grad school newsroom not withstanding), and I can't wait. I am finally and officially employed.
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.
Monday, July 24, 2006
a man and his unlikely dream car
When I was a kid - maybe five or six years old - my dad drove an early 1970s silver-gray Gremlin. You might not remember such a car, as they apparently only made the gem for less than a decade, and stopped before I was nary a twinkle in my mother's eye.
But my dad loved his Gremlin. I remember riding to school in the bare-bones jalopy, my dad with his burly dark beard and grey hair and my brother and I silenced in the back seat by the ever-present NPR playing on the AM/FM radio. I didn't know any one else that owned a Gremlin, and in fact, I still have never met anyone with such a privilege.
At some point, the car was unceremoniously sold for something no doubt more practical and less memorable, but I think my dad has thought about that car from time to time for the past two decades. Little did I know, he had also recently been scanning the pages of EBay.
"I just called to tell you I am the proud owner of a 1974 lime green Gremlin."
This was his voice mail to me this weekend. I had heard he placed a bid on the car a few days before, but my brother and I both were a little skeptical that he would follow through with the inevitable last minute bidding wars before the auction closed on Saturday morning. We assumed he'd get outbid by a Gremlin collector (there has to be a collector somewhere in the world, right?) or decide it wasn't really worth it, and really what business did the dean of a high falootin' school have driving around such a silly car? (I can hear the Media Relations folks now, trying to explain that they have been patient with him in the past, but this might have just pushed it passed the line of what is acceptable for academia.)
But Pops won the auction with a final bid that was more than double his opening bid (but still coming in hundreds lower than some women pay for wedding dresses). And now he is indeed the proud owner of a lime green - oh yes, lime - Gremlin, sold by a guy who called it a "fun car, old like me" and who promised to throw in a bag of M&Ms - plain, not peanut - to the buyer.
Ever since he traded in his early midlife crisis Mazda sports car for a large, sensible, white Toyota several years ago, my father has complained about the car. Under the guise of frustrations about a rattling this and shaking that, he looked for reasons to hate the car. It's just not practical, he'd say, with all these automatic buttons and bells and whistles. He always preferred driving my 10-year-old manual-everything Toyota that doesn't even have a radio or a hubcap to its name. But now I wonder if the only thing wrong with his car is that it isn't a Gremlin.
I am not sure if he's going to give up his practical, acceptable for a man of standing in academia and the community Toyota. I guess at first I assumed he'd have both cars, until I was reminded that people don't keep a Gremlin stowed in the garage for weekend jaunts around town. I can certainly picture him driving it, 25 years later still donning a beard (although considerably less hair) and listening to NPR. Sure, it will likely attract a few stares, but he should be no stranger to that, as he and my step-mother are admirers of "found art", a.k.a. junk (picture a "bottle tree" next to the driveway, adorned with chardonnay bottles with their labels intact) that decorates the yard.
But what else would he do with it other than ditch the conservative ride and slip comfortably back behind the wheel of a Gremlin? Either way, I hope he'll let me drive it when I'm home next.
Here's a shot of it I pulled from Ebay. Next, I'll try to get one of my dad sitting happily in the driver's seat.
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.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Oops, another monthly expense
The folks who run memberships at gyms know what they were doing. No matter how much information you try to drag out of them on the phone, they always insist you come down and see the gym and meet them. And despite my intentions, they always seem to rope me in, cut me a deal, and have me signing a contract.
That was the case today, when I meant to just go down there, get a feel for the atmosphere and an idea of the monthly rates. It's nothing special. It's a gym, has some machines, a few classes, a locker room. I am itching for some physical activity, and the aforementioned stifling heat isn't really conducive to a mid-day jog.
But considering I don't have a steady income and I am not sure if I'll be getting a job anywhere near the gym, I was hesitant to sign up just yet.
Then again, if I don't sign up today, I'll have to pay the $150 fee when I do decide to join, the mastermind salesman tells me. I'm sure you'll be working down here, he says. This really is the closest gym to you for the best price, he pushes. Then we start talking deals: I am shaking my head, hesitating, he's jotting down numbers and wringing his hands. Then I am handing over my credit card.
To my credit, I was able to talk him down from a one- or two-year contract, to one for six months, in case I needed to cancel and didn't want to pay the ridiculous fee. He also gave me the cheaper, two-year contract rate, and the first month and a half free.
Ok, I know what you are thinking: He does that for everyone; (once again) you're not special. I guess that's probably the case. Sure, I'm probably a sucker. But at least I didn't sign my entire life - and life savings - away. And, I have a meeting with a personal trainer tomorrow morning. (Which, I hope is nothing like my friend's recent trip to a trainer in her new home of Singapore, where they told this petite girl that she was obese and out of shape. Yikes!)
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!)
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
I think the heat is making me delirious
Just as I am getting over the Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey break-up - deciding to side with sweet, hunky, wounded Nick although I think Jessica can do no wrong - and just as the Jennifer Anniston and Brad Pitt thing hurts less - despite the residual anger at seeing Brad and Angelina Jolie together flaunting their giant, gorgeous family all around the world - now Carmen Electra and Dave Navaro split.
Devastating. I watched their engagement and wedding on MTV's "Till Death Do Us Part" (c'mon, admit it, I know you did, too), and there was just something about them. They're both beautiful and exotic and sexy, and together it just seemed.... right. What a loss.
***
I'll go ahead and join the collective groan across the country about the stifling heat. Here it's close to 100, with a heat index several degrees higher. Before you all nod your heads in agreement, testifying about how you're sweating the second you get out of the shower or the car is a sauna, take into account that chances are you are now or at some point during the day sitting in an air conditioned office. (Granted, I don't have to commute in shirt sleeves or a tie or pants or heels, and when I venture out it's in minimal clothing.) I wake up to the morning sun baking the living room, which then progresses to the back of the apartment, making the place a veritable sweat box. There is little relief, save for the three-plus showers I have been taking a day. So, I just thought I'd comment on it, too.
***
In my unintentional quest to read every written word in this apartment (while looking for a job and trying to be a generally productive citizen, of course), I just read a really interesting article in the latest Wired magazine that gives me hope. It's about a new theory that says some creative geniuses have their breakthrough early in life, where others are more methodic, "plodding along, peaking late in their careers." I often read about people who have published a dozen books, won a Pulitzer and changed the world before their 30th birthday. It always makes me wonder what the hell I have been doing with myself and why I am not famous yet (sitting in this sweltering apartment, making my way through the Internet and writing to this blog might have a small thing to do with it).
But then, maybe I'm a late bloomer? Maybe I just need a few more years under my belt, and as the current geniuses are fading into the sunset, I'll be standing nobly atop the float, cruising through the crowd, waving at my admirers as they throw money and flowers and acclaim my way. Just a few more years...
***
It's such a rare occurrence that I thought I'd document it here. Last night, I had a full, restful night of sleep. Unlike the last few nights, I didn't wake at 3 a.m. or 5:30 a.m. to workshop everything from the latest job interview to new schemes to make money. I didn't lay open-eyed in bed, my feet twitching from restlessness, longing to make it through the night. Instead, I slept through it. It was awesome.
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.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
a morning show rant
I've had kind of a one-track mind lately, my thoughts overwhelmingly dominated by the stresses of finding a job. Will they call back? Did they like my ideas? Will I ever work again, and if I do, will I remember what to do, how the phone works, how to ask questions?
Understandably, I've been blogging less, since as you no doubt are gathering, this can get tiring and doesn't make for engaging discussion.
But I had to document - or reiterate, as I know I have addressed this in the past - my utter, visceral hatred for Ann Curry. Many of you likely have jobs and lives and whatnot that preclude you from sitting in front of the television in the mornings picking apart the mannerisms and characteristics of one Today show host. So allow me.
Now, first let me say that I am sure she is a nice person, means well, has a good heart, yadda yadda yadda. That said, I think she is a horrible television personality - I hesitate to use the word "reporter" for what she does. When she interviews people on sensitive topics, she contorts her face in this oh-for-shame, I-feel-for-you look that only comes across as contrived and condescending. (This reminds me of the Tyra Banks fat suit incident, where for her show she donned a fat suit for an hour, badgered people about how she expected them to react, then sat with real life fat women on her stage and cried, acting like she had any small clue what they were going through.)
Curry never looks comfortable. She has a nervous energy to her, like the nerdy kid doesn't quite fit in, so laughs a bit too loud and whines rather than holds her own in the banter with other hosts. When Katie Couric did it, it was charming and natural.
I just watched her unabashedly fawn over Diane Lane, showering her with compliments, acting like they were best friends. Again, with Katie it felt genuine, but such charisma is lost on her replacement. On the other hand, the other Today host Natalie Morales has it. She's calm, humble, comfortable and brings a feeling of realism to the lineup.
Why am I all of a sudden a media critic, caring about the stupid morning show? Really not sure. Why don't you just turn off the television, Sara? Okay, I will, but it's like a train wreck. Television in general kind of is - except for the most awesome show ever: So You Think You Can Dance, and most public television programming. Most of it makes me angry and bored and disillusioned, but despite my intense negative emotions, it's hard for me to walk away. Perhaps because it allows me to focus on something other than the toils of finding work.
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.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Why did I chose this career again?
My job search trudges on, and I am trying desperately to stay positive, when really, professional morale is at an all time low, and I am this close to considering nursing school (I hear nurses are in demand) or the old stand-by career (if I had the talent, that is): professional back-up dancer.
I interviewed at one place that I felt really good about. In fact, the interview went great, and one of the editors and I hit it off like we were old friends from the block. I met with pretty much everyone in the damn newsroom, including the publisher, who shook my hand and congratulated me, since meeting him meant I was going to get an offer. Awesome, right? Well then days pass, during which there is some back and forth with one of the editors who wanted me to come up with story ideas, then wanted different, fresher, more enterprising ones (all this without having the sources or knowing the beat or the area) and now there's talk of a test story.
*sigh*
*shoulders falling*
So I am still searching, and trying to ignore this sneaking sense of panic I can feel coming on. "Oh, you'll get a job one day." "It'll all work out soon." Really? Really? I'm not so sure. I guess it's sort of comforting to hear from other journalists in similar situations. But it would be more comforting if we all got calls back and abundant job offers.
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.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
this is a test
In a job interview yesterday, an editor scrawled on a piece of paper his editing test for me. I have been staring at this paper since then, and although it seems strangely familiar to me, I can not for the life of me figure it out.
So here it is:
On a blank piece of paper, he wrote this:
"There are three errors in this sentance.
1.
2.
3."
OK, first I can see he did spell "sentance" wrong, so that's one. But are there others? I, of course, Googled it, and came up with similar versions of the test, that indeed had additional errors - one had "error" spelled wrong and the other had "is" rather than "are." Then I guess the third error is that there are only two errors. Christ.
So I am beginning to think this editor made a mistake. But considering I am trying to impress this guy, I am not so willing to concede. Dang.
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.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
"The Greatest City in America"
... So they say, in bright white letters on every single bench throughout this city. That might be overstating it just a tad, but so far, so good. (They also call it Charm City, but I am still trying to figure that one out, too.) Anyway, since I've been here a couple weeks and am finally getting settled into an apartment, I thought it was time to share a few observations on Baltimore:
1. Whatever city employee in charge of setting those timing boxes for traffic lights should be fired. No, more than fired. More like fired, kicked in the chins and then forced to drive around the city nonstop for a week. It's all off. The major thoroughfares that are supposed to get you up- or downtown quickly by timing the lights so that at the proper speed you get all greens aren't set right. No matter what, a good 10 minutes is added to your trip through town thanks to those god-awful lights. Even on smaller streets. At first, you think it's just not your day, then you wonder if the traffic gods are out to get you, and finally you realize the timing is all screwed up for everyone and perhaps no one is in a hurry or cares enough to say something.
2. There's something about Baltimoreans and their snow balls. Every few blocks or so, there are stands set up selling snow balls. You remember them: shaved ice doused in neon sugar water perched atop flimsy paper cones? Sure, they are likely quite refreshing in this heat, but I mean, really? Snow cones? Does anyone else find that to be completely random?
3. This city is full of energy, and from what I've seen, mostly good energy. There are people out everywhere all the time. (Yes, I say this knowing full well that I have not and don't plan to venture into the neighborhoods that are mostly desolate boarded up townhouses and "no trespassing" signs.) But for the most part, you can fell the realness, the life of the city, all around. Sure, in some neighborhoods, this life sometimes morphs into a tension, an uncertainty of what feels poised to happen, but it all adds up to an energy I like.
4. One Web site nebulously explained that it's called the Charm City because of all the charms here, such as museums and culture. Okay. But on a recent drive out to a Target north of town exposed me one potential charm: The Great Blacks in Wax Museum (now on my to-do list), and one just random image that I am still trying to figure out: Picture a properly-uniformed policeman sitting regally atop one of those hairy-booted Clydesdale horses, meandering through the paved streets. Now, replace the Clydesdale with a regular old mangy white horse and replace the policeman with a slouched black man donning an oversized white T-shirt, black cargo pants, sneakers, a side-cocked cap, and a touch of bling around his neck. I kid you not. This was the image - the charm, perhaps, I saw wandering down the street. In retrospect, I wonder if he was riding near a park (maybe he rented a horse for a day?), but I can't picture the park, and can only this random rider on the gritty streets of Baltimore.
So those are just a few of my initial thoughts on this city. We just moved into our new apartment, which basically just meant brining over a couple bags of clothes and a box or two we hauled from city to city and placing them pathetically in the middle of the hardwood floor. Really, we have nothing. In fact, this cavernous palace of an apartment (c'mon my point of reference is a single room in Chicago where I could basically reach the fridge, my desk and the bed without getting out of my one chair) seems unfillable.
And as much as I talked about really wanting a couch and how that would be my first purchase, the day we signed the lease we were at Wal-mart buying a grill and four plastic deck chairs for the back deck. The next day: Hula girl lights to string up. Sure, there may not be a stitch of furniture in the entire place, but we are ready for BBQs on the back deck. Priorities, I guess.
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.
Monday, June 26, 2006
the need to feel like you're in
Yesterday on This American Life on public radio, host Ira Glass was interviewing a comedian, and their conversation has really stuck with me.
In particular, I keep thinking about Glass' comments. They were talking about growing up and families and feeling accepted. Glass said it seems like there are some people who are always in. From the beginning, and through the toughest times in life - with family, high school, even adult relationships and marriage - they always feel as if they are in, like they belong, and they don't doubt they belong there and are completely wanted there.
Then there are those, as Glass identified himself, that need constant approval, as if at any moment it's all going to come crashing down. He said even with his wife, he wakes up each day feeling the need to prove himself anew.
His words really struck a chord with me, as I see that in myself. I find myself unable to get completely comfortable, particularly in my relationships. I often don't feel in. Although I know the relationships I have spent so many years building couldn't possibly be so fleeting, and I also have to give credit to the other players in this, but I have a hard time accepting the acceptance, I guess. At any moment, I feel like my friends are going to say, "Sara, it's been fun, but you just don't fit in, and we've decided things would be better without you here." Or, "Sara, we like you, you're great, but you have to understand you will always be one ring removed, one level away from the center."
I know most of this is self esteem. And I know how annoying it can be for those who care about me to every once in a while be faced with my need for approval, and trust me it's something I have spent many years working on. ... But is there something else? Maybe something from our childhood? Something in the genes?
The comedian he was interviewing described a time when she was called on stage to be an audience volunteer, and at the end, when the host ask for everyone to applause, they all did - except for her dad. His approval wasn't so easy. Later when she asked why he didn't clap, he said, "What for? You didn't do anything!"
So that alluded to her childhood issues with approval. Thinking about my life, I can't find any of these moments or emotions - and I will be the first to say that there is a point where you can't keep blaming your parents and your childhood. But I guess the whole topic (which was maybe 3 minutes of the whole show) got me thinking about my own personality, and the roots of it.
It also made me wonder if this is indeed true - are there people like this, is it this black and white? Are there people who naturally feel in, while others always feel like approval is fragile and temporary? Or does everyone have moments of each, and low self esteem makes some more prone?
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?
Saturday, June 24, 2006
getting settled
Finally. I have landed in a city that I might just stay in for more than a couple months.
But not without a slight travel mishap. And as these things go, it happened mere miles away from our final destination. We were tooling along a Maryland interstate, licking the last sticky bit of ice cream cones from our fingers, when I heard the familiar sound of a tire blow out.
No big deal. Right? Well, that's until we pulled over and tried to unscrew the lug nuts and maybe one was rusted or a wire was crossed or it just was not our lucky afternoon, but one nut just slap broke off. After many tugs and many more profanities, pride was swallowed and AAA was called. Kenny came out in his badass towtruck, chatted us up, sprayed some WD40 on the lug and tugged the sad, limp tire off.
Again, all set. Right? Not so much. Kenny proceeds to screw on the spare tire to set us on our merry way, when he notices the spare doesn't fit. It's the wrong spare. How does this happen, I ask. Who knows? In all his days (and judging by his beet-red baby face couldn't have been many), Kenny has never seen this.
A short truck ride with Kenny and a couple hours later, I had a new tire and related accoutrements, $200 less in my bank account, and a slight buzz from beers at Ruby Tuesdays while we waited.
Finally, we made it. I think I am still having mixed emotions about moving and trying to get settled, as illustrated by my complete, unexpected come-apart in the parking lot after seeing The Break Up (and I don't think I was torn up by the acting). Maybe I'm still a bit stressed about hearing back about an apartment (fingers crossed, people, this place rules), still being in everyone's way - this time with all our stuff spread out across my friends' living room, finding work, being a grown-up and all the related business that goes with that. Yep, I guess that's it, and while I try to keep an oh-this-is-what-makes-life-exciting attitude, I am daydreaming of a time where I am finally settled. It seems so foreign these days, I wonder if it exists.
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.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
who am I kidding?
I should have known the hiatus wouldn't last long, and really this month or so was too long, if you ask me. For a few weeks, I reflected on this forum and licked my wounds and tried to figure out if I wanted to keep writing here. Then I realized that as usual, I was overthinking it, being a tad melodramatic, and I just needed to just shut up and get back to the business of writing.
To follow in the "mass email" theme, I'll start with a bit of news about me. I have finally determined where I am moving. After bouncing around for a few months (most recently staying at my dad's house with all my stuff stored in the garage), and being somewhat transient for the last two years, I finally have plans to settle in Baltimore. I know, I know. The city doesn't really command the drum roll and flying confetti as some other spots, but I do think it will be the best spot for me now. Trust me, I know the pros and cons of the city, and have spent time there when I lived in DC. (As my friend CK put it, it has just the right amount of white trash - which is a good thing that DC altogether lacked - but it doesn't have a rep for being particularly safe.)
Anyway, my long-time boyfriend (that's my new term for him... says more than just boyfriend, but he isn't my husband...) just accepted an awesome job. We've also got friends there, and we were ready to move somewhere kind of familiar and close to home. For me, the job search has amounted to a massive bitch slap, so I decided to step away for a bit, continue to freelance, and then once settled, find an equally awesome journo-related job.
So that's the news. We leave next week. And my first item of business after we find an apartment is to buy a couch. (We have nary a stick of furniture between the two of us and I fantasize about stretching out on a real live couch - and not the kind that was lifted from the high school rec room like the one we used to have.)
I have spent the last two weeks at my dad's house in Alabama, and as usual, there are so many things that are just awesome and so many things that are shocking.
Awesome: Perhaps it's a given, but what comes to mind is the stick-to-your-ribs pulled pork BBQ sandwiches dripping in sweet and smoky sauce and served next to greasy onion rings and cold light beer.
Shocking: Bumper sticker in rural Alabama that had a Confederate flag and said "Fighting Terrorism since 1861." Reminds me of a T-shirt I saw in Panama City Beach, Florida that said alongside a Confederate flag: "You've got your X, I've got mine."
Awesome: Floating lazily down a river in inner tubes with a few cool Bud Light tall boys in hand, spotting sunning turtles and generally having the giggles. (Equally awesome is the man who drove us in the back of his truck down to the river: He was donning dirty tan overalls and a baseball cap, had eyes that didn't entirely point in your direction when he was talking to you, and when he spoke, it often took a few minutes and a couple other natives to understand what he was saying.)
Shocking: Someone close to me (who's relation and name is withheld) saying "Now we just have to figure out what to do with all the Mexicans."
That's the South for you, I guess. For a while, we considered staying. There were a couple of job options that had this fine town on the table, and it was easy to get swept up in the romantic idea of living here - where we have friends and family, the weather's hot but nice, the food's always greasy delicious, the people are nice and the pace of living is slow and kind. As much as I love it, I think it's probably lucky that it didn't work out. Perhaps I love it so much because I am only here to visit. I can shake my head at the local political ads that use the word "liberal" and "gay" with disdain and the lingering ignorance of the South. And I can revel in the culture, the food, the lifestyle. And maybe one day, it will draw me back.
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.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
finding the proper forum
I would like to make an amending entry on my feelings on Mother's Day. I spent this weekend with my two closest friends, the two women in the world who - as they once again proved this weekend - often know me better than I know myself. These two friends sat me down (on the hallway steps at 4 in the morning after countless Bloody Marys and beers... as only best friends can) and told me about myself.
First, they held a mirror up to me on my feelings about Mother's Day. What I am coming to realize is that for 15 years, I have been basically a miserable, angry, bitter sap who has made it her mission to stew in sadness while making all those around her feel guilty and rotten. I've allowed myself to take the residual anger of an 11-year-old who lost her mother to cancer and save it up for this one day. I've managed to (for the most part) channel that anger into pride, strength, love and celebration on other days, such as the holidays or anniversaries. Most other days, I hold my head high with the knowledge of who she was, what she gave me, and who I am because of her.
Not so on Mother's Day. Instead, I had allotted one day to feel like total shit. And until now, I thought that was OK. I thought, hey, it's my prerogative. I'm allowed to feel this way, to allow for this hurt, and no one can tell me otherwise. Wrong. My best friends can - and did - tell me otherwise. Turns out, I was making others around me miserable and uncomfortable, and in the end, it wasn't doing much for my mental health either. So I am beginning to realize that the day will always be hard, but rather than curse those who enjoy it, I have find ways to channel the hurt productively. Rather than set aside a day for the years of compounding anger and bitterness, I have to accept it. I have to find a way to celebrate my mother, and allow those around me to do the same.
*****
On a somewhat unrelated note, I am also reconsidering the fate of this blog. It has been brought to my attention that perhaps the subject matter of these entries is not entirely appropriate for publication.
When I sit down to write to this blog, I try to consider that someone might be reading it, including those I am writing about. I know the best writing comes from personal experience. All the entries about pop culture and media are filler, just to keep words flowing in between real entries, those about the moments that mean the most to me. Writing makes what has happened more real to me, more important, sorting out my thoughts through words and somehow making a record of these moments, and I chose to write the more personal entries mainly for myself, because when I do, I feel freer, and fuller and more in control. And if there is one single reader who reads something I wrote and then thinks about their own life - their own mothers, best friends, insecurities, anxieties, for example - then there is a sliver of reward in that for me as well.
However, I now realize that while I often try to censor myself a bit to avoid offending someone in my stories or simplify the complexities of my relationships to make the stories palpable for an (albeit small) audience, I am at the same time short changing them. I'm not doing them justice. And in the end, that censorship isn't doing the stories justice either.
Plus, here I have the control over the story. I control what to write about and what details to put in, taking the control away from people who ultimately see their lives written about here. I appreciate that not having control over how your life or shared experiences are portrayed is frustrating.
Perhaps I hadn't really defined what I wanted this forum to be, which explains why I fluctuate between musings on pop culture and intensely personal moments, a combination that perhaps seems a bit nasty or degrading. But I struggle with wanting to write about what is really in my heart, and I am just not sure I have enough to say about the filler stuff to fill a blog.
I never intended to insult or degrade the people closest to me or cheapen the experiences that clearly define who I am. But perhaps this blog isn't the proper forum for what I really want to write about.
So I am not sure what I am going to do next, but it's looking like this might be it for this blog. I'll at least need to take a little hiatus to work out my intentions and the proper place to write. If I find that I either have enough to say about the world or that I am prepared to take on the task as a writer (and the risk of overexposing and offending those close to me) of pouring my life out onto these pages, then I'll be back.
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.
Friday, May 12, 2006
more lessons in reporting
I just finished one of the hardest stories I have ever had to write, or at least it felt like it this week when I was hunched over reams of Census data, a calculator in hand, numbers swirling around my head like little cartoon birds when someone gets knocked out.
I should have known. My editor warned me it would be a tough story, heavy on the numbers with lots of financial type data to gather and put together in a somewhat readable story. But I agreed, and a week later, I wanted to call her up, tell her it was a dumb, dead end story idea, I'm not a damn market researcher and I quit.
Instead, I wrote it, but not without frequent bouts of blood, sweat and tears. What a relief to have it done.
One frustrating highlight of the research was calling folks for information, and not one but two sources giving me this response: "Well, if you try Googling 'Generation X financial data' or 'Gen X home buying', you should come up with something." Or "Why don't you try the Census Bureau?" One guy told me to plug "Generation X" into Wikipedia - this was after 35 minutes on the phone with him debating just what date this generation begins and ends, a minutia that had about zero relevance to the overall story.
My response: "Really? Really, folks? Are you f-ing kidding me? Do you really think I haven't thought to do that? No? Then thanks, thanks so much for helping me with this research. I haven't even heard of this 'Google' you speak of!"
Not really, but I wanted to. I guess stories like these teach us something about being a reporter - you know, how to dig into financial data for relevant information, how to expand your search when you are hitting a wall with every single call you make, how not to let on to your editors that you are totally overwhelmed and annoyed and are just not sure you are capable of doing this story, how not to overtly insult your sources.
On the job front, I called a newspaper to introduce myself and make sure the editor got my resume and clips. His secretary answered and I explained why I was calling, and before I even finished my sentence, she quipped: "He got 'em." Right.
And by the way, let me just say I too am absolutely stunned about The Great American Idol Upset of 2006 that is Chris getting voted off. I agree with him; perhaps we all just assumed he was a shoo-in and didn't bother to vote. I mean, how dare we as Americans allow Chesty McBoobs with all her button-popping performances stay on when this hotty rocker gets the boot? Truth is, it's rigged; it's a great big Alabama conspiracy and Taylor Hicks is probably gonna win anyway. Whether it's because the 'Ham is a "hotbed of undiscovered talent," as one Bama columnist claims, or the fact that Fox is the only channel Alabamians get (my theory), Alabama will likely win again.
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.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Happy stinkin' Mother's Day
My mother made another cameo in my dreams last night. She does this every once in a while, always looking a bit different, but each time I can tell it's her.
We were shopping. All I remember is trying on a grey jumpsuit from Bebe (clearly nothing I would do in real life), and she tried on some other atrocity. She had shoulder-length curly hair and a round, smiling pink face, reminiscent of photos I've seen of her as a younger woman.
There's no mystery in why she's on my mind. Mother's Day is right around the corner, sneaking up on me like an impending storm cloud. Even before the ubiquitous commercials, billboards and magazine ads, I can feel it coming. But each year they show up to remind us all that it's a day to thank our mother and give her a giant hug and maybe a card and some flowers and show just how much she's our rock and our best friend - a day for me to yet again remember I don't have that.
My best friend's mother died on Mother's Day last year. How about that? In some ways, it seemed unspeakably cruel, but on the other it seemed like her final F you to cancer and even a conscious comfort to her daughters. As my friend put it: Now, they only really have one main day that f-ing sucks, while I for example have two: the day she died (right around Thanksgiving) and Mother's Day.
Each year, an overwhelming part of me is angry, resentful and bitter, wanting to give all those with moms a swift kick in the stomach and the insensitive advertisers a piece of my mind. But I do try desperately to temper that with positive memories of my own mother and keep in mind that I am so lucky to be her daughter, even if she was only alive for 11 years of it.
Fifteen years later, Mother's Day is still so hard, and my guess is it will always be hard. I remember one particularly tough one a few years ago when I just felt like my insides had been sucked out and every one around me was glowing with love and fullness. My two best girlfriends knew it, and they took me out to get wasted on margaritas, letting me tell random stories of my mom while tearing up at the restaurant table. For that, I'll always be thankful, and this time I owe them the drinks (especially considering one of them was said friend who's now in the Dead Moms Club).
So I might not have a mom to send daisies to, but I do have people around me that over the years have been there to fill me up - get me drunk when I need it.
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.
Monday, May 08, 2006
an hour of my life I will never get back
Did I really just spend the last hour watching Deal or No Deal? I am afraid so. I couldn't turn it off, and as much as I want to say it was the charisma of the contestant with his fuchsia shirt, sporadic bouts of tears, maniacal jumping and generally positive energy, I think it's more.
Here are my initial thoughts of the show as I recover from the shame and undeniable heart palpitations incurred in the last hour:
1. This game requires exactly zero skill. We have almost entirely abandoned shows like Jeopardy that called on individuals to use their brains.
2. Because it requires zero skill, anyone - including this beaming man who drove Howie to remark "I feel like I am on the Broadway version of Deal or No Deal" - can walk away with tons of money, and it plays on the "that could be me" mentality.
3. About two dozen gorgeous women stand poised, waiting for their case number to be called and for Howie to direct them to open the case. They are gorgeous. Absurdly and ultra-degradingly, the women are all wearing matching dresses. Said dresses are obscenely low cut, so their shiny breasts nearly spill out as they jump up and down with glee when their opened case has a low dollar amount. Though this goes against every feminist fiber of my being and I want desperately to lambast the sexist show for playing on the country's misogynist attitudes, I too couldn't help but stare at these women. Again, they are gorgeous. (By the way, why isn't anyone mad about that? I mean, isn't someone raising a stink about how these women are portrayed? Did they really have to use 30-some-odd models to open the f-ing cases? And they were actually named in People's Most Beautiful list? Seriously, folks.)
4. What's perhaps more annoying, however, is that the contestants and audience act like these women have any part in this, save for smiling ear to ear, squeezing their boobs together, and if called upon, making one small motion to open a silver case. They didn't put the card in that case. Why are you thanking them? They have nothing to do with this. They don't give a shit. They are getting paid truck loads regardless of whether you win a million dollars.
5. There's a banker. He calls to make you a deal. Really, there is a small phone on a podium that rings, and red lights flash around the room and everyone gets quiet. Then Howie has a little chat with him and relays the message. Please give the a small break. The feigned melodrama is suffocating me.
6. Howie's an idiot.
7. In fact, the entire show, the host, the women, the audience, the concept - the entire thing is idiotic. So, too, then am I for sitting in front of the television, laughing out loud at the high-strung idiosyncrasies of the lovable contestant, my heart quickening with each decision.
When I first saw parts of the show and ads for it, I asked myself - are we really this ridiculous? Will this really show really be a hit? Have we all lost our ever-loving minds? Apparently, the answer to all three is yes.
Here are my initial thoughts of the show as I recover from the shame and undeniable heart palpitations incurred in the last hour:
1. This game requires exactly zero skill. We have almost entirely abandoned shows like Jeopardy that called on individuals to use their brains.
2. Because it requires zero skill, anyone - including this beaming man who drove Howie to remark "I feel like I am on the Broadway version of Deal or No Deal" - can walk away with tons of money, and it plays on the "that could be me" mentality.
3. About two dozen gorgeous women stand poised, waiting for their case number to be called and for Howie to direct them to open the case. They are gorgeous. Absurdly and ultra-degradingly, the women are all wearing matching dresses. Said dresses are obscenely low cut, so their shiny breasts nearly spill out as they jump up and down with glee when their opened case has a low dollar amount. Though this goes against every feminist fiber of my being and I want desperately to lambast the sexist show for playing on the country's misogynist attitudes, I too couldn't help but stare at these women. Again, they are gorgeous. (By the way, why isn't anyone mad about that? I mean, isn't someone raising a stink about how these women are portrayed? Did they really have to use 30-some-odd models to open the f-ing cases? And they were actually named in People's Most Beautiful list? Seriously, folks.)
4. What's perhaps more annoying, however, is that the contestants and audience act like these women have any part in this, save for smiling ear to ear, squeezing their boobs together, and if called upon, making one small motion to open a silver case. They didn't put the card in that case. Why are you thanking them? They have nothing to do with this. They don't give a shit. They are getting paid truck loads regardless of whether you win a million dollars.
5. There's a banker. He calls to make you a deal. Really, there is a small phone on a podium that rings, and red lights flash around the room and everyone gets quiet. Then Howie has a little chat with him and relays the message. Please give the a small break. The feigned melodrama is suffocating me.
6. Howie's an idiot.
7. In fact, the entire show, the host, the women, the audience, the concept - the entire thing is idiotic. So, too, then am I for sitting in front of the television, laughing out loud at the high-strung idiosyncrasies of the lovable contestant, my heart quickening with each decision.
When I first saw parts of the show and ads for it, I asked myself - are we really this ridiculous? Will this really show really be a hit? Have we all lost our ever-loving minds? Apparently, the answer to all three is yes.
a life without cereal
A couple weeks ago, I tried on a couple pairs of work pants that I wore religiously last year, but that have been taking a hiatus as now my daily work attire consists mainly of housepants. I could barely button them. Once on, my butt looked like a sausage ready to bust from its casing, and I was close to playing "cover the button" when I sat down.
Whoops. So it looks like my suspicions were confirmed: I'd put on a couple pounds. Maybe it was the Port Royals and endless corn tortillas of Honduras or the working from home where my desk was within reach of the refrigerator. Either way, I was faced with the reality that either I slim down a bit or, assuming I ever get an office job, I buy all new pants. And considering the mounting bills, the latter really isn't an option.
Enter the South Beach Diet. I know, I know. I don't really like it either. I agree that it really isn't healthy to deprive yourself of certain healthy foods, and the rapid rate of weight loss can be alarming. I did it a couple years ago, and I think I lost some eight pounds in the two week ball-busting carb-free hell of Phase One. In all, I got down to what I now see was a completely unreasonable and unhealthy weight for me, but I thrived on the "you look so skinny" comments and had become completely obsessed with being thin.
At one point when I was home for Christmas, my friend pulled out a scale, brought it into her living room and made me stand on it. She said if I didn't reach a certain weight, we were going to have words, and I barely scraped by. Sadly, I was excited that my friends thought I was too skinny.
But the more level-headed Sara knows that balanced eating, regular exercise and moderation are really the best way to lose weight and stay healthy. (Plus, I am once again affirmed that my sensitive digestive track just can't handle the brutal completely-carbless diet.)
I think nearly every woman has some kind of body image issues or insecurities, whether it be for her weight or breast size or complexion - you name it. I was always a chubby kid growing up and I watched my mother struggle with her weight. I was convinced being fat was in my genes, so I have obsessed with keeping one step ahead of the inevitable. More and more, however, I am beginning to think maybe it was my poor eating habits that brought on the chub, and I am not entirely doomed.
Either way, I recognize I have a somewhat warped image. I still look in the mirror and see someone who could stand to lose some weight, and I imagine my friends would describe me as their tall, kind of chubby friend Sara.
Woah this is getting deep. What I am trying to get at is that in the end, I have to find a way to love the body I am given and all that self acceptance crap.
In the meantime, I gotta fit into my damn pants. And, I am not prepared to go up a size or tip past that certain weight on the scale. So I did the South Beach Diet. I got through most of the first two weeks, stopping two days early out of boredom with eggs, a longing for fiber-rich cereal and a digestive track in confused knots. I had also noticed my energy level was down, but the decreasing numbers on the scale kept me going. In all, I think I lost maybe four or five pounds (not as much as last time, but I think I drank a lot more beer this time, a luxury I am not prepared to give up), and I just slid comfortably back into my Editor pants.
This morning, I had the most delicious bowl of Cheerios ever, topped with a half of a banana. I also decided that although the diet probably fueled some of my weight issues and that life is too short to not eat cereal, it did the trick and got me back on track to being healthy and into my pants.
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.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Can't a girl just buy some Claritin?
Last time I went into CVS to buy allergy medication, I was carded and asked to fill out my information and sign form in a three-ring binder. Apparently, to buy pseudophedrine these days, you have to submit to everything short of a retinal scan.
So, I went in today fully expecting to be fingerprinted, body searched and photographed, but they asked for nothing. I asked the clerk why two weeks ago, I held up the always-long check-out line to manually fill out a bunch of information that was already in their computer since they track my every move via my CVS card, information that no doubt nary a soul would look at again. He said something about how CVS was overly-aggressive and now they have scaled back since they just have to phase in the procedures.
I understand all of this is to deter methanphetamine makers from, well, making meth. But do you really think anything CVS or other pharmacies do to limit pseudophedrine purchases is going to stop users from using and makers from mixing up the toxic chemicals in their apartment labs?
As one clerk at said CVS pointed out, they'll just find new ingredients to make it, like NyQuil. Meth already has some pretty f-ed up ingredients like battery acid and lye, and my guess is if the wanted to bad enough, they could find a way to make it without Sudafed. They probably already have.
Also, how will me manually writing down my information help, besides making a headache to buy allergy meds (thanks, especially to the 3.6 grams daily limit, meaning those of us who want to buy a month's worth of Claritin can't) and making more work for the already under-appreciated pharmacy clerks.
I'm just saying there has to be a better way, whether it be to track who is buying what, or to go after a different source that's supplying these ingredients. Or better yet, don't wait that long. Perhaps we should be addressing the problem before kids try to clear the shelves of Sudafed.
It seems like yet another drug issue that the U.S. is missing the boat on. The other that really irks me is how view marijuana use. Despite studies across the world that prove otherwise, the American government last month once again declared that pot has no medical use in treatment. This statement even goes against what our own scientists have declared (and the government has done, up until 10 or 15 years ago) and how it has been used for hundreds of years.
One obstacle to the acceptance for medical use was it was - and is - also used recreationally, and with that comes this image of the hippie pot smoker loser and this hog wash about it being a gateway drug and if you use it your life will go to shit. Use is different from abuse with anything, and it's a shame that this is overriding research into (and legality for) medical benefits. It's a misguided effort, especially considering the rates of alcohol abuse and even cigarettes, both of which are legal and arguably way more harmful. Perhaps that's a soap box for another day.
So, 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.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
so much to do...
I stumbled upon this blog today that runs people's to-do lists, from real daily activities to goals to "Why My Parents Are Hypocrites." In a voyeuristic way, it's kind of like the blog Post Secret, which always seems to bring a lump to my throat when I read it.
Anyway, as a person who loves lists and makes several each day - from things to do to potential careers to resolutions - I was intrigued. It got me thinking of a list I made recently, which I titled "Things to do before I die, but preferably sooner."
Problem is, in all my moves recently, I think I've lost the list or it's packed away somewhere. In an effort to recreate it, here are a few I remember off the top of my head. (I recognize that by putting these items here now I am opening myself up for feelings of failure if for some reason I check back here in years to come to see just what I have or have not fulfilled. Either way, here they are and feel free to comment some of yours, which of course I might have to add to mine.)
- Become fluent in another language. I have since amended this one to Spanish fluency (for a while it was Czech), and it's an item I am trying hard on, and getting pretty close to. At least right now I consider myself conversational (best in conversations with 6-year-olds and other Spanish language students.)
- Write a book. This is a big one for me, something I have wanted to do since I was a kid. I got thinking about this recently when I read some woman's blog that she chose to shut down, claiming the writing there was keeping her from putting her words toward a novel. I wonder...
- Travel the world. I am also working on this one, and the list of places I want to go just keeps growing.
- Get a story published in The New York Times. I have made zero progress on this one.
- Run a marathon. This one haunts me. I have no idea why I want to do it, and no matter how hard I try, I am a terrible runner. Again, no progress here.
That's all of the major ones I can think of now, although I am sure I'll remember a few once I post this. I didn't include some doozies like having babies or the smaller ones like learning how to knit (which I got pretty close to, then I got frustrated and gave up. Perhaps I'll get back to that sometimes soon...)
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...)
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