tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14495482633355575942024-03-14T04:56:49.996-05:00Who's Your Mommy?Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.comBlogger49125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1449548263335557594.post-4028526920039905932012-04-05T16:01:00.003-05:002012-04-05T20:54:15.641-05:00Writing Out the Storm -- part 2 <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi35FHgkIF3Mk8M0hs5522Do1Dv_NGvUq2rQNcLSLazkyLGr3Ne3SAdWHnqGTY1ErQBnP2pFgIIo1YsPSExhyOKUf6oHa_OHgwVBktfFKKNVVAc4uvdg2G5HpRKRfSWFjcbW3HoqOjySYl5/s1600/Photofridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" nda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi35FHgkIF3Mk8M0hs5522Do1Dv_NGvUq2rQNcLSLazkyLGr3Ne3SAdWHnqGTY1ErQBnP2pFgIIo1YsPSExhyOKUf6oHa_OHgwVBktfFKKNVVAc4uvdg2G5HpRKRfSWFjcbW3HoqOjySYl5/s320/Photofridge.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A picture of the inside of my refrigerator <br />
two days after going to the store -- <em>sigh.</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
Yes, that's right. I'm unbearably lazy and selfish. I have been neglecting you, poor blog, because I have waaaaaay too much to do -- what, with my exuberant workouts, my stimulating coffee interludes, and my tireless grocery shopping. And while we're on the never-gets-old subject-of-groceries-because-there's-nothing-more-fascinating, I am CONVINCED that a homeless person is sneaking into our house at night and stealing our food. I don't understand it -- I go to Kroger on Monday, buy shitloads of produce, cheese sticks, and goldfish varieties, and then by Wednesday everything's gone, all gone. It's actually kind of depressing. There's nothing worse than going to the grocery store three times a week -- although my friend, Amy, puts on her sunglasses and i-pod at full throttle and pretends like she's in a movie (whatever kind of movie shows an almost-40-year-old-woman grocery shopping with an i-pod and sunglasses on -- oh, that's right, a thriller). I have, myself, also tried doing this, but I'm just not coordinated enough to grocery shop and listen to music at the same time. I knew it was a problem when I was so in the zone that I accidentally rammed my cart into the Pillsbury section (my favorite!) and subsequently found myself bobbing up and down in time to the music while simultaneously picking up tubes of chocolate chip cookie dough. I'm pretty sure the dairy guy over in the next aisle thought I was, um, <em>special</em>.<br />
<br />
The other thing is, I'm transitioning. No, not from a female to a male, or from an apple to a kumquat (although some days I could <em>swear</em> I'm a kumquat), no I'm transitioning from a girl who occasionally posts on a blog, to a girl who does absolutely <em>nothing</em> productive at all. Just kidding! Seriously, I AM going to try to get published in book/magazine form, although I've submitted a few things so far, and have subsequently learned a) that it's really, really hard to do, b) that I absolutely LOATHE rejection (I mean, who doesn't?), and, c) that offering the editors lollypops and/or sexual favors does absolutely <em>nothing</em> to better your chances (who knew?!). But, the good news is that I've garnered enough feedback from this blog-writing experience to know what works and what doesn't -- well, for my writing-type, at least.<br />
<br />
For the most part, people want funny. I've posted a few serious essays, and those went over like liverwurst pancakes -- most people just don't "get" them, but then there are those <em>special few</em> (and you know who you are!) that think they're fabulous. I think that, for me, being humorous on the surface while having an underlyingly pedantic, er, <em>meaningful</em> theme seems to be the most popular with my readers. And, what's funny is that is exactly how I would describe <em>myself</em>: silly on the outside, but serious underneath.<br />
<br />
This blog has been a sort of launching pad for me. Through writing it I found my voice (ridiculous as it sometimes may be) and I became comfortable sharing it with the world. "Who's Your Mommy?" became a quest for me -- who was <em>I</em>??? And now I can finally say I know truly who I am and what I want, which is, obviously, to be a piece of Entemann's coffee cake on its way to Ryan Gosling's mouth. Well, that, and also to be a wonderful mother, wife, writer, friend, healer, and woman.<br />
<br />
And while I may start posting fewer and fewer blogs and poems, just know that I AM still writing, and that, who knows? Maybe, just maybe, one day I'll have my <em>very own</em> kumquat tree. Oh, no! I meant...book!<br />
<br />
X's and O's,<br />
SarahSarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1449548263335557594.post-74013820868691384612012-03-12T13:19:00.001-05:002012-03-12T17:29:53.702-05:00Miss Conventionality<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_6oriH6rjTDfmNDQVWhGJf5_NKkCMpKU6CIFjFJOHOCVKWiexRgRwDEAVfCSw5ckkGQYN5EUBvSsj27G9oMUtKFPyku_9Tn86d-NBbnRG_whY0gC3cZNqPnKon-FfkUvaeo6hABQbqBH8/s1600/IMG_1225.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_6oriH6rjTDfmNDQVWhGJf5_NKkCMpKU6CIFjFJOHOCVKWiexRgRwDEAVfCSw5ckkGQYN5EUBvSsj27G9oMUtKFPyku_9Tn86d-NBbnRG_whY0gC3cZNqPnKon-FfkUvaeo6hABQbqBH8/s320/IMG_1225.jpg" width="320" yda="true" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here I am, playing Twister with the boys --<br />
how much more conventional can you get?!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Lately, I'd gotten out of the habit of writing. You know, how you get out of the mode of something (exercising, reading, Tibetan chanting, etc.) and then it's hard to jump (or <em>om</em>) back in. What happened was this: first, I got impossibly busy with all the effervescently joyful parenthood stuff -- <em>sigh</em> -- the activities, the homework, the class parties, the calming down screaming children by screaming at them myself (works like a charm...ahem. That's me clearing my throat because I honest-to-goodness yelled so much the other day I made myself hoarse. I always <em>did</em> want to sound like Lauren Bacall, and THIS might very well be the way to do it! I'm kidding, of course. I'm actually not much of a yeller -- my mom takes care of that for the both of us -- but, yes, there are days when I just can't hold it in.) During this hectic and jarring phase, I would come home at the end of each day totally exhausted, irritated, hungry, and cranky (and, let me tell you, that's a goooood combination -- just ask my husband), and all I wanted to do was, well, NOTHING.<br />
<br />
The next thing that caused me to break from writing was an addicting little show called Downton Abbey. While I don't really write much about TV, I had to mention it, because I literally could NOT do anything else until I had finished BOTH seasons one and two. It was television crack, and I was hooked. I became a good-for-nothing wasteland of a person, glassy-eyed and weepy from the emotional turmoil of turn-of-the-century drama, and no one or no thing could get in the way of my focus and determination to finish the boxed set (if only I could have similar focus and determination in other areas of my life -- like, say, cooking, or, perhaps, um, <em>working</em>.) And THEN my entire family came down with the stomach flu. Oh my God, this is the grossest, WORST virus in the entire world, and this particular episode was <em>violent </em>(think Monty Python's <em>The Meaning of Life</em>, and if you don't relate to or understand that analogy, then I think you can pretty much envision what I'm talking about without getting graphic). I haven't had the stomach flu in years, and now I remember why I've always hated it so much. As I was laying there, so weak that I couldn't even open my eyes, I started thinking those feverish hallucinatory thoughts that seem to occur only when you're really sick.<br />
<br />
Like, "Why are yawns contagious?" or, "What is a rutabaga, and would I recognize one if I saw it?" and, "I wonder whatever happened to the Grimace." I ALSO started to think about how conventional my life seems to be at times, and how I have struggled and fought against that conventionality with all my might. I didn't want to fit into the typical stereotype of simply a "mom," or a "wife," and I mistakenly thought that by living the life of one I was doing just that. But lying there, simultaneously sweaty, chilly, and achey, I suddenly realized that, yes, I <em>do</em> sometimes have to do the conventional nitty-gritty stuff (i.e. bathing the kids, grocery shopping, buying hydroponic supplies, the usual), but inside I don't think of myself as conventional at all. I am open-minded to all I see and experience around me, I create fantastical images and worlds within my own mind, and I seem to be able to giggle at almost anything (including times when I should be disciplining my children, which is not necessarily a good thing -- in fact, it's downright awful, just like Charlie's giant burps at the dinner table -- no, no, no, not funny at all, <em>cough</em>). I hate most rules, politics, and vapid conversations, and while, this doesn't make me unconventional or anything, I do feel that it makes me a little more, um, odd??? Is this just me wishfully thinking that I'm oh, so unique and special? Maybe. But, in any case, searching for this mystical identity outside of a traditional mother/wife identity, has helped me get in touch with my inner creativity and my passion -- which is to write (I also got in touch with a little inner wildness, which was a helluva lot of fun, and which flame will probably never fully extinguish -- at least, I hope it won't). And now, finally, I have come full circle to the point where I can appreciate the things that <em>are</em> conventional about my life, and I can again enjoy the simplicity and the peace that domesticity can sometimes offer.<br />
<br />
Like smushing and loving on my amazing children. Like feeling like I've actually accomplished something when I've unloaded the dishwasher. Like putting on my i-pod and folding the laundry naked (wait, doesn't <em>everybody</em> do that?) And, in the meantime, I'll probably always go out in dresses that are too short for my own good, I'll always look for adventures off the beaten path, and I'll always keep it realzzz, much to the dismay of certain embarassed members of my private circle.<br />
<br />
Okay, so there you have it. The entire last month and it's accompanying revelations wrapped up in a nutshell. So hopefully from this point forward, I'll have a little more time and energy for writing again, and no more encounters with the wretched stomach flu or addictive television shows.<br />
<br />
Weeeellll...except for Homeland, which Amy said is the best show EVER, and which, I think is starting...NOW! 'Nuff said.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1449548263335557594.post-13638068297452666572012-02-18T09:34:00.000-06:002012-02-18T09:34:30.369-06:00Poems XIV<strong>pause</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
the space of somethingness<br />
becomes a vasting void of nothingness, <br />
as breath and peace and sitting very still<br />
shines daylight seeped through eyelid windowed sills.<br />
<br />
i move towards the flaming urgent sun<br />
and expand like fire on yellow fleece,<br />
exhilaration comes shattering into me,<br />
a thousand tiny white doves, limitless --<br />
<br />
flying within me and then without.<br />
space and light and freeing all <br />
meaningless lacks in this worldy world,<br />
artifice forgotten, perhaps a dream.<br />
<br />
wisdom fills my delicate bones,<br />
my skull of thought and joy and fear.<br />
I cross-legged perch and yearn for a touch;<br />
expansion god-wanting, infinite want. <br />
<br />
energy floats, and curls 'round my frame,<br />
and there is naught I can do but to sit here like this,<br />
to wait for the timeless unravelling truth;<br />
blue, like the day you were sung to and born,<br />
<br />
and white, like the love of my pellucid heart.<br />
<br />
my chassis aloft <br />
this<br />
spectral <br />
transport.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Lip Service</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>fire <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>seeking<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>speaking<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>inspecting <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>smirking <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>playing <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>shifting<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>teetering <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>watching <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>waiting <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>reacting <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>lingering <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>searching<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>questioning <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>hoping<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>wanting <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>lusting<br />
panting scorching<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>flashing <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>fighting<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>wrestling <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>tackling<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>tumbling <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>succumbing<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>wasting <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>forlorning<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>saddening <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>hardening<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>hating destroying<br />
iceSarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1449548263335557594.post-75086409061680085942012-02-07T13:49:00.002-06:002012-02-07T20:28:45.199-06:00Turf 'n' Surf<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div> <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0AMkTGePyHXflUAEVihIqz4fErSMHf5l0mEJvdovhmgyE0V_4hHoZIwwqfKQDnXFZylarLRgMG-_dfCP4BMGqI-AtQooB2mJhK9k7TeUTyk0dSa-upKkIXXUqHGdMQsCngn3Rvqsr13Y0/s1600/1830-9119.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="232" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0AMkTGePyHXflUAEVihIqz4fErSMHf5l0mEJvdovhmgyE0V_4hHoZIwwqfKQDnXFZylarLRgMG-_dfCP4BMGqI-AtQooB2mJhK9k7TeUTyk0dSa-upKkIXXUqHGdMQsCngn3Rvqsr13Y0/s320/1830-9119.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's a pic of my dad on his latest skydiving adventure.<br />
Just kidding! This guy looks so much like him, though, I couldn't resist!</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
Sometimes I feel as if I lead a double life. On the one hand, I'm this domestic goddess (well, actually more of a domestic disaster) living in a cute little brick house in the very urban city of Houston, Texas. Then on the other, I'm this free-basing, oops! I mean free-thinking, California girl spending her summers living (although some might say <em>mooching</em>) in her parents' guest house in the nature- and art-centured Santa Barbara, California. The cultures between the two locales, and thus my two lives, could NOT be more different. The funny thing is, someway, somehow I have become BOTH of these girls (Mom, don't freak out -- that doesn't mean I'm living in Houston forever!), but I guess it's because I have learned how to be adaptable, and, um, a grownup??? Oh, say it isn't so! The word "mature" practically makes me gag, and it's just one letter away from "manure," so what does THAT tell you?! Oh...I guess nothing, but <em>still</em>.<br />
<br />
Okay, anyway, back to my very exciting double life (the way I'm building this thing up you would think I'm practically Jekyll and Hyde. Sorry, nope, not that good.). Let's start with Houston. First of all, it is a very, very <em>social</em> city. We go out to dinner three to four nights a week, usually with friends. The thing about Houston is that because the weather often makes it tough to do things outside, you end up hanging with your homies a LOT. Which is fun, I like to be social, and the truth is, I have the best girlfriends of my life here. The other thing is, when you go out, it's kind of <em>fancy</em>. I get dressed up here waaaay more than I do in Cali (where I primarily wear jean shorts, a.k.a. "jorts," and flip-flops -- or, as my daughter used to say, slip-slops), and I actually wear more make-up here than I do in California (although I reserve this tedious ritual mostly for going out -- during the daytime I look like a shiny, sweaty, spandexed -- oh God, dare I say it? -- <em>Mom</em>.) But I like to dress up occasionally -- it makes me remember that I can acually look kinda-sorta presentable sometimes, and that I can be feminine and sexy too.<br />
<br />
Houston is warm, friendly, and open, although it is definitely more formal than any city I have ever lived in. Politeness is a way of life here, and even when someone has something trashy to say about another person, they'll end it on a positive note. For instance: "Darla is such a two-timing blabbermouthing bitch -- bless her little heart!" Personally, I like to use this technique when griping to other moms in carpool line: "Bella is so dramatic she's absolutely exasperating, Charlie's a lazy little shit, and Teddy has behavioral problems, I'm convinced of it...oh, but they really <em>are</em> such little miracles, aren't they?!" (btw, none of that stuff about my kids is <em>really</em> true -- cough, ahem.)<br />
<br />
Now my life in Santa Barbara, on the other hand, is the polar, and I mean <em>polar</em>, opposite. First of all, you are outside ALL OF THE TIME. It is so beautiful, and the weather is so perfect, there is no reason why you shouldn't or wouldn't be. For this reason, I find people there to be a little more antisocial, seeing as how they are super busy enjoying the scenery, or hiking, or kayaking, or jogging, or windsurfing, or paragliding, or skydiving...Okay, maybe not EVERYONE is busy skydiving, but you get what I'm saying. My parents are particularly antisocial (although the extreme sports stuff is not really their thang. Can you imaging my father taking a running jump off a cliff with a parachute on his back, sing-songing, "Darrrrrling, I just can't seem to find the pull-tab..."), although they enjoy their life to the nth degree. Unlike most Houstonians, they are as informal and impolite as it gets. In the late afternoons you can usually find my mother lounging around in a schmatta (Yiddish for housedress), barking orders at anyone who gets in her path. "Goddamn it, Sarah, get the kids out of here, I can't hear the news, and, Frank, feed those dogs NOW!!!" To which my father and I will acquiese, simply to get out of the war zone. Although, under his breath, my father will mumble to me, "Sarah, I really can't stand your fucking mother sometimes, you know that?" Subsequently, my brother will appear for dinner, and yell in ogre-ish baritones, "MOOOOMMMMM!!! WHAT"S FOR DINNER!?!? IT BETTER BE POT ROAST -- I'M STAARRRVVIINNGG!!!" See? Super polite and formal, just like I said.<br />
<br />
In S. to the B., we loll around on chaises in the backyard, we read books, we putter in my dad's art studio, we eat dinner at 5:00 around the tiny kitchen table. A big night out is considered going to the movies and the Natural Cafe (that's another difference -- the food. While Houston has "grub," Santa Barbara has "greens." Steven is always FAMISHED whenever he visits, and he never lets me forget it. Love that -- complaining is the <em>best</em>!) I totally recharge and replenish during my summers in California, visually, emotionally and spiritually. Plus, I come back all rested, geared up, and ready to PAR-TAY -- ya' hear me, friends?! (Ugh -- canNOT believe I just wrote that. Gross. But, seriously, who's down?)<br />
<br />
Anyway, what I guess I'm getting at with this double life business, is that I feel like I kind of get it all. I get the socializing, the fun, the friendliness, the beauty, the chillaxing, and, of course, the family. I know that this split-personality lifestyle of mine can't and won't go on forever, but in the meantime, I feel blessed to experience my life in such a multitude of layers and dimensions. And my life itself has become representative of my persona -- it is all the things that I enjoy, that I stand for, that I am. And perhaps that's <em>exactly</em> what our lives themselves are intended to be.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
P.S. A big shout-out goes to my friend, Amy, who helped me come up with this post idea -- must give credit where credit's due! And on that note, thank you, Stu, for helping me come up with the title, "Who's Your Mommy," in the first place. And, thank you, Mom, for giving birth to me, and thank you, Steven, for being so supportive, and thank you, Jen, for -- oh, you guys get the idea!Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1449548263335557594.post-50545073828963265272012-01-22T20:49:00.000-06:002012-01-22T20:49:25.704-06:00Words With Friends<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH7UFhEYlszTNUjMEgwhO0HiU-CAohFziYq8v5lmkLmYEmIjb-VMfrTnpgcq7oA8Wvv1N2toPeSR2mmiPSzNE1B1rrHOVuZ8FX2wPr9KSMC0arLEA_IA91hztGPeVYdxy6WYNkzuqjgC-M/s1600/2012_01_22_10_19_39.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="253" nfa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH7UFhEYlszTNUjMEgwhO0HiU-CAohFziYq8v5lmkLmYEmIjb-VMfrTnpgcq7oA8Wvv1N2toPeSR2mmiPSzNE1B1rrHOVuZ8FX2wPr9KSMC0arLEA_IA91hztGPeVYdxy6WYNkzuqjgC-M/s320/2012_01_22_10_19_39.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Age 1, playfully stealing my father's newspaper.<br />
Even as an infant, I was already obsessed with words!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>My mop-headed 6-year old stumbled downstairs at 6:30 this morning and assaulted me with two tribulations at once: the first was breath that smelled like a three-day-old roast beef sandwich, and the second was a question. "Mom, is <em>fuck</em> a bad word?" I, of course, responded as any responsible parent would, "Yes, Charlie, it's a terrible word, and don't fucking ever say it again." No, I'm kidding, but it did get me to percolating. I write, so I am constantly thinking about words -- how they sound together, how they flow, what they convey. But, what I don't think about often enough is their extreme potency. For they <em>are</em> powerful, conveying hurt, anger, love, jealousy, you name it. And I, for one, have never shied away from swear words, but I do try to tone it down a little in my posts, because, even though they no longer have much shock value to <em>me</em>, they still are somewhat affronting for the rest of the mainstream population. My girlfriends and I sometimes try to make up our own swear words, usually unsuccessfully. Hmmm...now I am questioning whether I should list a few of these or not...and I think the answer in my head is a resounding <em>not</em>. I actually did start to write a few of the humdingers down, and then I thought of my dad, who really is kind of a prude, and who admonishes me every time I use the f-bomb in a post (although he keenly maintains that the words "asshole," bitch," and "shit" are perfectly acceptable -- um, duh). So, in order to stay in his good graces, I guess I better err on the side of caution.<br />
<br />
Swear words aside, what I think I'm getting at is that words in general have become more extreme, more consequential than ever before. Not only is my son a good six years younger than I was when I first encountered the f-word, but the words we say themselves are more impacting to our own personal characters. Racial slurs, of course, are taboo, but even those are somewhat confusing these days. For instance, my daughter sells Girl Scout cookies, and the name of the caramel/coconut confection that was once known as the "Samoa" had to be changed because it was politically incorrect. Okay, I get that, but then the name it was changed to, "Tagalong," <em>also</em> had to be changed because that, too, was politically incorrect. Wait, <em>what?</em> So now the confused little cookie goes by the oddly spelled "Caramel deLite," which ALSO happens to be a popular menu item among the business set at Treasures Strip Club (don't ask me why I know that, I just do). Meanwhile, those sneaky little Girl Scouts threw in the titillating "Shout Out," and the ever-satisfying "Thanks-A-Lot," which I prefer to indulge in that exaaaact order, although how this exactly relates to racial slurs, I'm not quite sure. <br />
<br />
Okay, Sarah, focus, focus...oh, that's right, back to words (because they are just so <em>fascinating</em>! This blog topic is really bizarre.). Anyway, we are living in a world where we are texting and talking on our cells <em>everywhere. </em>Just yesterday I saw a teenage girl riding her bike in heavy traffic, head-down and with no hands, which were furiously punching away at her Blackberry. This obvious member of mensa also happened to have on her i-pod headphones, and might as well have been straight-ironing her hair with her toes she was so distracted. Do we really need to keep in CONSTANT communication with our friends/business associates/pimps at <em>all</em> hours of the day? (Personally, I like to keep <em>my</em> pimp guessing my whereabouts, just for kicks.) Now, don't get me wrong, I am a victim of this madness just as much as the next person. I am in my car for hours on end, and if I'm not texting, I'm emailing, and if I'm not emailing, I'm yakking, and if I'm not yakking, I'm beer-bonging. Oh, whoops, that's not related to <em>words</em>! Okay, I'm joking, but I AM feeling super weird and silly today, probably because of all the electromagnetic cell waves that are rotting away at what used to be left of my brain.<br />
<br />
All this technology at our fingertips has been a gift in many ways, but it has also been a curse. I have caught myself innumerable times looking down at my cell phone, when, instead, I should be looking at the world around me. I love words and I love writing, but sometimes I need to take a break from all the screens everywhere and reconnect with the natural environment. Additionally, I am incredibly free-flowing with my words, so I have very few hesitations when it comes to what I'll write -- probably in an effort to interact with all of <em>you</em>. I have let you in to my life and background in so many ways, and, perhaps sometimes I've offended you with my bluntness or, perhaps sometimes I've entertained you. I know these words that are perpetually moving and shifting around me are something I was given to communicate with the world around me. I just have to remember that sometimes <em>not</em> communicating and just being and observing is part of the equation also. It is connecting in a way that email and texting cannot -- it is connecting to our inner and outer selves.<br />
<br />
And, peace, beauty, yada yada yada, and...OH MY GOD, IS THAT MY CELL RINGING?!? Grab it, Bella, it might be the computer guy!!!<br />
<br />
Happy Chinese New Year, everyone!Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1449548263335557594.post-89590201042019682992012-01-09T13:36:00.002-06:002012-01-10T08:41:22.881-06:00Seriously Silly <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGyi8eilEDCBsq2T3d9VyKqWfimr2tqTJU3jhm2jr_dSSrrqUWmAkaP0sv9rvJaW1txcr0AUdjbPi3ba-jve3upwOVBM5j2bgFSGCUAITTnUrH9dekp5o3PZK2-OmOGgX0ZkOwAjDMrLW6/s1600/2012_01_09_13_27_11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGyi8eilEDCBsq2T3d9VyKqWfimr2tqTJU3jhm2jr_dSSrrqUWmAkaP0sv9rvJaW1txcr0AUdjbPi3ba-jve3upwOVBM5j2bgFSGCUAITTnUrH9dekp5o3PZK2-OmOGgX0ZkOwAjDMrLW6/s320/2012_01_09_13_27_11.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here I am, around age 11, <br />
taking myself waaaaaay too seriously.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
The other day a friend asked me if I wrote my blog because I was looking to portray myself in a certain way. I was a little shocked. I had never thought about <em>portraying</em> myself one way or another, I have simply spoken from my heart. While I do edit certain things, such as other people's personal information, what I write is just the bare-faced truth about myself. Sometimes this stuff comes out as silly, sometimes it's serious. Maybe sometimes it's boring, maybe sometimes it's shocking, and maybe sometimes it's a little bit country (oh, that was terrible!). In all earnestness though, this process has been therapeutic for me, cathartic, life-changing -- you know, like how you feel when you go to Loehmann's and find an Alexander McQueen dress on sale for $75. That's right, it's been big. <br />
<br />
I read a poem awhile back that described facebook as "an altar of loneliness." This quote has stayed with me, I think because it seems so <em>true</em>. With facebook, we really do only portray what we want the world to think, we share only what we think will reflect postively on us (although I have one friend who actually posted a picture of a <em>chair</em>. The title beneath the photo was, "My new chair!" Um, really? This perplexing post actually didn't reflect <em>anything</em> at all.). What if all of a sudden people started to post <em>real</em> stuff? (i.e.) "This bladder infection really stinks!" or "Does anyone have a good cure for silent gas?" or, perhaps, "My children are being annoying as shit." Wow. That would change things up! Who's in? My very first "real" post is going to be, "Ouch. I think I just burped and sneezed simultaneously."<br />
<br />
With facebook, we're not actually connecting with our "friends," we're simply cyber pseudo-connecting. We're entertaining each other, but we're certainly not <em>really</em> "sharing." Regardless, it's enjoyable for those of us who partake. Some of us take the facebook thing very, very seriously and put big, heavy political posts on our walls, and then some of us, myself included, put really stupid and ridiculous stuff out there. I think my all-time worst post was something like, "I just found a really long white hair growing out of my arm." <em>What? </em>Not only was that not remotely interesting in the slightest, but it was just plain moronic, and kind of freakish (oooh, I cringe when I think about it). I've also put stuff out there about my kids (lots of it, too. Sorry. I think I'm just proud.), and occasionally I'll throw in a You Tube video if it's especially funny (in my opinion, I guess). My girlfriends and I post pictures of ourselves when we're feeling super-fly TNT, and I'll post "happy birthdays" ad nauseum because, well, why not? (plus, I feel a little guilty when I <em>don't</em> do it) Then, of course there's my blog, just to get it out there, because I have no idea how else to do it, and because I have this strange notion that my words actually <em>mean </em>something. Either that, or I just need a LOT of attention and praise, in which case, keep it coming.<br />
<br />
Back to facecrack, um, facebook. There are the facebookers who simply stalk and don't put anything out there at all, they just kind of nose around and stuff, and then there are the facebookers who post every five minutes or so. (Yeah, that's right, you types know who you are.) There are the people who ask questions and advice: "Does anyone know the name of a good homeless shelter/tattoo joint?" And, lately, there have been the inspirational posts that I think people get from a website or something. "Cats are special, because, well, they're cats and they're kind of wise and scary, so remember to never look back when you're on the staircase of life, but always look sideways at your right thumbnail." -- Anonymous. I read them all, and I kind of like them all. Weird, huh? This social media thing is really a strange phenomenon, and I think I'm still getting used to it. I don't myspace, I don't tweet, and I don't twat. 'K?<br />
<br />
Where am I going with all this? I have no idea, but what I do know is that with my blogs and with facebook, I like to divulge and be serious, but I also like to laugh at and make fun of myself. Is this because I'm confident and don't really give a turd what people think of me? (Well, I like to say that, but I think I do care -- a little.) Is it because I think that life is meant to be enjoyed, and God wants us to have fun with it when we can? Is it because I'm really, really good at checkers? Wait, no, that's not related. And that's my point: I'm a total spaz, I like to have fun and I like to recognize my quirks and flaws and laugh at them, as well as learn from them. Life can be so challenging, and without being able to make light of it and ourselves sometimes, we can get bogged down by its seriousness.<br />
<br />
And on that note, I must run. I have a picture of a coffee table that's just BEGGING to be posted!Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1449548263335557594.post-74028812613084242762012-01-09T12:46:00.001-06:002012-01-09T12:47:23.129-06:00Poems XIII<strong>Categorical</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
We were illusion,<br />
television phantasms <br />
and courtesy memos;<br />
mirages on coeval screens.<br />
Show me your Wii<br />
and I'll show you mine too,<br />
glassy, saccharin tweets.<br />
<br />
White static's burst<br />
burst us in two<br />
like Limpet, Incredible once.<br />
Licked split us aloud,<br />
sad walkabout's shroud,<br />
a disappeared,<br />
ventured-near show.<br />
<br />
Why did that flick in-upon<br />
take me so long<br />
to read you what delved into<br />
Titanic, but better and wetter?<br />
And references never get old,<br />
or so I am told. <br />
<br />
Past greets the future,<br />
formidable bliss,<br />
DVR's whirred in and thus,<br />
I'll continue my sojourn<br />
(you press record),<br />
'till the program's become<br />
<br />
heartbreakingly strummed<br />
and charred and jejune;<br />
a telethon made for screens' waxy seal --<br />
and made-up illusion, <br />
<em>our</em> made-up illusion,<br />
fantastics the wondering real.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>How to Get Your Heart Broken</strong><br />
<br />
You'll see a dusky orange sunset from a splattered window.<br />
You'll hear a gular voice and startle up.<br />
You'll think you're in love. Wait, <em>are</em> you in love?<br />
You'll wait for calls and for calls and for calls.<br />
You'll go to sleep dreaming of rough hands.<br />
You'll wake up dreaming of rough hands.<br />
You'll feel feverish, hot.<br />
You'll feel angry, pissed.<br />
You'll wait for calls and for calls and for calls.<br />
You'll sob.<br />
You'll feel like someone sliced you in half, and then half, and then half again.<br />
You'll feel exposed, vulnerable, rejected.<br />
You'll hate yourself.<br />
You'll forgive yourself, but not really.<br />
You'll know there is nothing more you can do.<br />
You'll realize the bare naked truth.<br />
You'll accept, begrudgingly.<br />
You'll never be the same.<br />
You'll see a dusky orange sunset from a splattered window.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1449548263335557594.post-14247431126543865872011-12-30T17:35:00.001-06:002011-12-30T17:47:39.474-06:00Universal Sleuth<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MgPgEI8O0nY/TvzvqRkS3TI/AAAAAAAAAGA/44f0g929RP8/s1600/meditation+mount.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" rea="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MgPgEI8O0nY/TvzvqRkS3TI/AAAAAAAAAGA/44f0g929RP8/s1600/meditation+mount.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meditation Mount in Ojai,<br />
where I have done some <em>serious</em> imploring.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The holidays are almost over! Yeah!!! I never thought I'd be so excited to say that. But, the problem is, the holidays are frenetic, frantic, exhausting, and gluttonous -- which actually leaves very little time for, you know, relaxing and remembering where the festivities <em>really</em> came from -- former pagan rituals that are now merged with organized religions' belief systems.<br />
<br />
For me, personally, I've always had my own internal religious thing going. Here's my background: my parents are both atheists, but I grew up celebrating Christmas, Easter and all the other big ones primarily for the traditions involved -- traditions that I like to think of as "Americana." I was never exposed to church, or temple either for that matter, considering my mother was born Jewish. But the weirdest thing about all this was, that at around the age of 4, I started believing in God. I suppose that since I was never given any religious direction, I surreptitiously created my own. Needless to say, I would talk to God, I would pray to God, at night I would get into bed and say in whispered tones, "Bless my mommy, bless my daddy, bless my brother and sisters, bless my best friend, Emily..." I could never tell my parents that I did any of this, because they would make fun of me -- and they still do, as a matter of fact. They'll giggle and snicker, "What are you <em>this</em> week, Sarah, a Hare Krishna?" (A beautiful movement, by the way. I mean it. Although definitely too extreme for my taste.)<br />
<br />
The truth is, I <em>have</em> dabbled in different religious beliefs -- I tried Buddhism for a while and went to see various Buddhist speakers talk (simply <em>riveting </em>stuff), I've studied some Hinduism, and do appreciate the sensuality and mindfulness of the religion, and I've had the bare minumum of exposure (weddings and such) to Christianity and Catholicism. But there's also the blatant fact that I happened to marry a Jewish man. Judaism has a wisdom and a code of ethics behind it that I had never realized before. But do I connect to God through Judaism, or through any specific religion for that matter? No.<br />
<br />
I think I connect most to God, or, what I sometimes think of as a universal spirit, internally. I feel, and thus know, that there is something bigger than myself -- inside, as well as outside, the sum of my parts. I used to be most transported by this knowledge when I was in nature, or in front of something visually breathtaking. But, now, as I get older, I feel it more consistently, even when I'm simply driving on the freeway with three kids screaming in the back seat. Maybe this is because I feel so blessed to have what I have in my life. Or maybe it's because I'll always be a wanderer, on an unidentified and limitless journey, curious about what's inside of me, as well as what's beyond.<br />
<br />
I like having this internal connection to the divine, but I know that others, like my parents, will think that I'm dabbling in a religion known as lunacy. For me, I want to feel and connect in the way that <em>I</em> want to, and then I want others to connect to God (or not connect, if they so choose) in the way they themselves need to, as well. And this is why I sometimes think organized religion tends to divide us, as opposed to bring us together. For, with those rules, we are told that one way is correct, or better, than another way. And being in the South, I find the segregation here prevalent, but, truthfully, the divisions are everywhere, they're just better hidden in certain parts of the country/world. Perhaps I'm a little rebellious, and dislike being told what is the "right" way to worship (I've never liked rules much), and I also know I'm idealistic, but I just can't help myself -- I guess that's part of who I am too.<br />
<br />
My writing and my poetry have only furthered my spirituality. When I sit down in front of my computer I usually have no idea what I'm going to write, and then it just spills out of me, like instinct. It's that thing bigger than myself that's connecting me to my soul, and then connecting that to all of <em>you</em>.<br />
<br />
So, I guess the next question is, why did I write all this? I have no earthly idea. SEE where enlightenment can take you?Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1449548263335557594.post-82721848088174176162011-11-20T09:53:00.151-06:002011-12-03T14:44:10.217-06:00Bored Games<div style="text-align: left;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkP7fq10Du742T1HzZ19G0DSRtTOWqGlDJ-N5IBqIWXSdnG9k_liD-wQdautYVREX7Z5-lfPudrJiQRXND152v42d759P48YZ5uUbz0f8-Mvak6uiqcCGYOelLq7__3on6GBOTmA4JtVHp/s1600/photo+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" hda="true" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkP7fq10Du742T1HzZ19G0DSRtTOWqGlDJ-N5IBqIWXSdnG9k_liD-wQdautYVREX7Z5-lfPudrJiQRXND152v42d759P48YZ5uUbz0f8-Mvak6uiqcCGYOelLq7__3on6GBOTmA4JtVHp/s320/photo+%25282%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just a typical relaxing afternoon in the car.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I know, I know. It's been FOREVER since I posted a blog. The truth is, I've been stuck in a little rut. I don't know what's wrong with me, other than the fact that I think I've just been a little blase -- oh, and ridiculously busy with three pint-sized maniacs too. The other day I was trapped at home with a flu-ish one of them and I actually typed into Google, "Things to To Do When You're Bored." (need I say more?) But what came up was AWESOME, and I giggled out loud at some of the ideas -- i.e. "cheer up a potato," "interview your feet," "bloat," and my all time favorite -- "flash your goldfish." I thought about trying that last one, but we have hermit crabs, not goldfish, and it would only kill, like, 15 seconds <em>max</em>. But the thought of that liiiittttle extra adoration is always tempting. God, I'm desperate.<br />
<br />
But, here's the thing: even though my life is oftentimes routine, I do try to make it anything <em>but</em> boring. Usually I'm successful -- with some help. First and foremost, there's my girlfriend, Amy, who is by far THE funniest person I have ever met in my life, and with whom the word "loafing" takes on a whole new meaning. We have turned loafing into an art form, really. And by loafing I mean sampling delectable new concoctions at Starbucks, talking smack (a.k.a. gossiping), inspecting each others' picked-at pimples, and arguing over what works better: eyelash extensions or Revitalash (my vote's with the latter). Amy perpetually makes fun of me for being a workoutaholic and only wearing spandex and baseball hats, and I make fun of her for being pushy and lazy -- you know, we haze each other, it's fun. <br />
<br />
After Amy and I have loafed a goooood long while (and after she has hijacked my facebook account and pressed "like" on various items, such as "crocs," "mindful mommies," and "pot-pourri"), we then meet up with Carrie, who is actually productive, and, you know, <em>works</em>. The delightful loaf-cycle then starts all over again -- the inspections, the talking smack, the eyelash debating, etc. But, far and wide, the VERY best thing about girlfriends is the <em>laughing</em>. We laugh so frequently and so hard that some of us have had Pumpkin Spiced Latte come out our nose, while others of us have had, um...accidents.<br />
<br />
I have SO many good girlfriends in Houston (Jen, Ali, and the rest of you broads), and I could go on about my individual relationships with them forever, but I would be neglecting that extra special time sucker of mine -- my car. Because I'm in it for <em>four fucking hours a day</em>, and I'm not kidding. Fortunately, I have my i-pod, my i-phone, facebook on my i-phone, Words with Friends on my i-phone, and my ceaseless fantasies and imagination to keep me company. It's a wonder I don't get honked at more -- I average two to three honks <em>per day</em>, usually for going a good 15 to 20 miles below the speed limit, seeing as how I'm very, very busy finding that juuuust right song on my i-pod. My typical response to a honk is not a shouted "sorry!" or an apologetic wave of the hand, it's actually a very loud and long honk back, which solely serves to make me feel more powerful and less dejected. Then I usually I get the finger, and then I usually laugh. See how I easily I entertain myself? I'm practically retarded.<br />
<br />
*Sidenote -- In between the many short spurts it has taken me to complete this post, I actually did get into an accident, backing directly into a prissy 21-year-old's car parked behind me. Bummer though -- no honking, no finger, and definitely no laughing (She really was a total asshole, no sense of humor whatsoever. Tell me -- what is NOT funny about a huge dent in your brand new BMW? I mean, c'mon!). But I AM perpetually amazed by my total lack of awareness of the world beyond the boundaries of my personal auto-bubble. I'm kind of like a female, younger, not-blind, modern day version of a behind-the-wheel Mr. Magoo. We are so totally ONE.<br />
<br />
OK, back to my ever-scintillating day. Now is when the fun REALLY begins -- my afternoon delight. No, no, no, nothing sexy or anything (other than the very special dried sweat aroma that I have lingering around me, seeing as how I haven't "had time" to take a shower -- you know, with all that important loafing and stuff), I'm talking about the unimaginable delight of having three cranky, dirty, smelly and hungry kids shoved into my car, as their teachers <em>literally</em> wipe their hands clean of them (and by this I mean they honestly have to wipe Teddy's fermented grime off their palms after they've gingerly lifted him into my car by his shirtstrings -- today he tumbled in with a full cup of sand in each shoe, a purplish rash around his mouth, and a delicious "present" wrapped in a tissue.). Then it's driving to activities, screaming, spilling, whining, Cheetos, motion sickness, sobbing, hyperventilating, and ultimately, despair. And I haven't even gotten to the kids yet.<br />
<br />
Truth be told, it's the craziest shit I've ever done in my life. And, you all pretty much know what parenthood entails -- a lot of selflessness, chaos, hurt, joy, and, yes, routine. But the bottom line is, I wouldn't change any of it. Not one tear, one fever, one mess, or one laugh. I feel thankful to experience all this bedlam wrapped up in the mundane, because I know that our children won't stay young forever. I like that they still need me, I like that they still look up to me. And most of all, I like the emotional strength and the unconditional love that goes along with sainthood -- whoops, I mean motherhood.<br />
<br />
And I like it SO much that I'll be taking just a <em>teeny, tiny</em> leave of absence for a while. You cool with that, Steven?<br />
<br />
Gotcha! Happy Thanksgiving!Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1449548263335557594.post-79602538116686894272011-10-27T14:13:00.005-05:002011-11-14T20:30:31.819-06:00Poems XII<strong>Reveries</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
White kettled rose hips<br />
and tea's insipid sips --<br />
vapor dispels my halcyon skin,<br />
effulgent.<br />
<br />
I sit in the center of the sun,<br />
still and thoughtful,<br />
and drawn upon<br />
like weighted curtains,<br />
but I am too warm and bright<br />
to be oblivious bleak.<br />
<br />
I am, in fact, a sultry furnace,<br />
my carapace sears -- even you;<br />
you are too close by yards<br />
to my conspicuous <br />
licking flames.<br />
<br />
I engulf you and you know it;<br />
it's why you impugn me<br />
over and over,<br />
and over again;<br />
loneliness reigns <br />
in this place where you hate,<br />
because you don't fathom<br />
fully me.<br />
<br />
Forget you ever knew me,<br />
forget that I am yours,<br />
and continue to pretend<br />
for your mindless hours' end<br />
that your axiom is real --<br />
an axis blinded out.<br />
<br />
Intrinsic beams, now absolved,<br />
coruscate, then steep <br />
this vestige left of truth --<br />
<br />
a limpid candle snuffed <br />
whispers up,<br />
like the steam coming off a teacup<br />
at the kitchen table,<br />
in the middle of a wintry afternoon.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>The Kiss</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
Isn't it true that you love me like <br />
Ahab loved Moby? You want to destroy me but<br />
you can't get enough of me. You aim your harpoons and arrows <br />
in my direction, you want to hook me and reel me and call me your own.<br />
You will never.<br />
I am the universe's now and forever. I always have been.<br />
You are big and tough and, you know, <em>man.</em><br />
But I am of nature and you can never touch me.<br />
Just kill me, OK? I'm yours, already.<br />
But don't even think that once I'm dead you'll omit me.<br />
And if you ever do finally stop my heart (which you won't), you will regret it.<br />
You will realize your hatred was, really, obsession's lusty verdict: love.<br />
Sink your thirsty Pequod, but don't ever call me sunk.<br />
<br />
We throw our bodies on top of one another<br />
and breathe through our communal gills.<br />
Kiss me, you fucking hungry trapper.<br />
Deliver me your prey.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 8pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1449548263335557594.post-56444067222378579652011-10-23T10:12:00.000-05:002011-10-23T16:45:41.002-05:00Sibling Revelry <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZOggQq3P-evBONLFA-oYh9fY_XF4b0OWbULEU0Z7cYSvUi6r6unYRvDm_HmKvjPndz2fS7fYqBIwiL_dOx7rwPlFCS0P1S2Jbx0MZEmIrl7PklAk2EQepYTbmF82N-srFPCnxEpF0nK-7/s1600/2011_10_22_16_58_04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" rda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZOggQq3P-evBONLFA-oYh9fY_XF4b0OWbULEU0Z7cYSvUi6r6unYRvDm_HmKvjPndz2fS7fYqBIwiL_dOx7rwPlFCS0P1S2Jbx0MZEmIrl7PklAk2EQepYTbmF82N-srFPCnxEpF0nK-7/s320/2011_10_22_16_58_04.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My brother and I gazing proudly at some homemade Christmas cookies.<br />
And, NO, I am NOT ever-so-subtly posing so my hair falls <br />
sweepingly over my shoulder with dramatic flair.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
My four-year-old wrote (through dictation, of course -- he's not Salman Rushdie) my six-year-old the following letter:<br />
<br />
"Dear Charlie,<br />
I love you so much! When you sleep with me, that makes me happy. I love when you sleep in my room. Japanese! I love you, bear. I like to eat s'mores. From, Teddy"<br />
<br />
Is the kid sweet? Most definitely. Is he a genius master of the irreverent? <em>Absolutely!</em> (And who knew that he understood the subtle nuances of Asian culture?) But, more than anything, what strikes me about this letter is the natural and strong connection children share as siblings. As you all know by now, I have three offspring: Bella, Charlie and Teddy. Their relationships with one another are a bit complex (actually not at all, what am I saying?), and go something like this: Bella tolerates her two younger brothers, who eagerly abuse her as much as humanly possible. She perpetually concedes to them, because, I am ashamed to admit, I expect it of her as she is the oldest. (In the middle of the night, when I can't sleep due to my guilt-ridden thoughts, I try to reassure myself that this is okay, since she is the only girl and thus will always -- hopefully! -- have a close relationship with <em>me</em>, the way I have with my mother.) And I do try not to expect so much of her, but sometimes avoiding a fight or a screaming match is on the forefront of my mind, especially when we're at Target, or at, you know, a wedding. The other option that has occasionally crossed my mind is binding and gagging them when we're in public -- but, wait, would that be wrong? No, seriously, would it?<br />
<br />
Bella and Charlie sleep in Bella's room, in her queen-size bed. Weird, I know, but Charlie is afraid to sleep alone, and, actually it's kinda sweet. I know this has to stop sooner rather than later since they're getting so big, but I keep remembering when I was little and slept in my brother's room until I was, oh, 16 or so (OK, but don't worry, we had twin beds, and we only made out <em>twice</em>). I think Charlie feels safe with his big sister, and I love that about their relationship. I also love it when they share precious childhood predicaments with one another, like the stomach flu and head lice. That's goooood stuff.<br />
<br />
Now, Charlie and Teddy, on the other hand, are like two scrappy puppies. They rough-house, scream at each other, punch each other in the guts, say sorry, hug, and start the exhilarating cycle all over again. I watch these rousing matches deadpan, as nothing phases me anymore. Even when Charlie pushed Teddy off the seesaw and broke his arm, I kept telling Teddy, "You're <em>fine</em>, now let Mommy finish checking her facebook," until I noticed one of Teddy's arms was hanging down two inches lower than the other one. My awareness of this, meanwhile, happened a good 24-hours later. That's right, people, I am ON it.<br />
<br />
And nothing can get in the way of Teddy's blind <em>worship</em> of his big brother. He will pretty much mimic every single thing Charlie does, right down to nose-picking, and, you guessed it, farting -- and, no that <em>never</em> gets old. I practically LIVE for farts, fart noises, and fart jokes -- they are just SO FUNNY! (Interesting side note: every home has a different name for this action. In our house we call it "toot," while growing up, my parents used the bizarre, yet appropriately onomatopoeic word, "bumpsey.")<br />
<br />
I have three siblings, myself. My younger brother, Andy, and my two older half-sisters, Jennifer and Julie. Since I only grew up in the same household as Andy, I can really wholly comment on my relationship with him, as sibling dynamics are naturally more extreme when you are fighting over who gets to pick the T.V. channel (out of 13, of course), who gets to shower first (and Andy's were f-ing long!), or whose turn it is to play Jumpman on the Commodor 64. (Just to interject, I am also very close to my big sisters, and they are not only dear siblings, but amazing friends, as well. I am lucky to have them!) Anyway, Andy and I are five years apart, but that didn't seem to get in the way of our childhood kinship. Because my parents travelled with us so much, we were forced to be cramped in cars and hotel rooms together for inordinate amounts of time, and naturally we were friends, as well as foes.<br />
<br />
Andy and I could fight like nobody's business, as all siblings can, but we could also play together for hours on end. I remember putting on charming -- though efficient -- Izod rain ponchos with him, and tramping for hours through our muddy property during rainstorms. (What we were looking for exactly, I have no earthly idea, but I think Andy did retrieve a piece of petrified poop one time, although I still claim that this was actually just a rock.) We would play afternoon-long games of hide and seek (my all-time best hiding spot was the clothes dryer, the only problem was it was <em>too</em> good, and I got stuck in there for 45-minutes. It's a miracle I'm not more claustrophobic than I am.), and, when we outgrew that, we turned to Scrabble (and he's <em>good</em> -- who knew?).<br />
<br />
Andy is gruff on the outside and all mush on the inside. He's smart, mischievous (he used to tape record me and my boyfriends in our orange groves, and then play the recordings at the dinner table -- yikes, <em>cringe</em>!), and kind of looks like a male version of me, but with lots more tattoos. Andy's a little bit on the reserved side, whereas I'm a huge communicator (as if you haven't already guessed), but we will always have that unspoken sibling connection with each other, no matter what. The guy has been through a <em>lot</em>, come out the other side, and is an outstanding father and friend to many. I respect him to no end, and I feel blessed that he is in my life. And, what I have realized, is that as much as I try to force him to <em>connect</em> with me, the connection is already there, and always has been. I can only hope that my children grow up with such fond memories of each other as I have with my brother, Andy.<br />
<br />
So, Bro', I love you, I'm proud of you, and I'll never try to push you in the pool again. Maybe.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1449548263335557594.post-11529233359567019362011-10-21T16:28:00.000-05:002011-10-21T16:28:33.576-05:00The Moon<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><br />
<br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 8pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Moon, I lost</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>you, for awhile, <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as dark and </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>terrified nights </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>of wrath shamed </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>me blamefully.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>of course, fear, my </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>pale sibling twin, was </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>there too, limping home, <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>wordless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, suddenly, <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the other day, while I aimed </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>my wait, you came back to </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>me, glowing like a ghost,<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>fervent bright, like a fever </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>of white love, gulped too fast,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>brimming relief in spades.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A bit of shade, thank god.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where had your cryptic orb <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>been all this time?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why had </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I lost you, barren terrain </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>mindlessed to no avail? </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why had I been so blind and dull,<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>mute, a portrait blank?</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasted myself, but, Moon,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>you interrupted like cataracts,<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>gratefully – now, all at once, </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>you seek me, and then hide <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>my ruminating, frightened </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>foibles, lies; the leftover </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>anguish that is just and </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>only mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are the </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>shift in me, the space of cool <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>within the shadow of <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>my endless nights --<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>gilded whims of distant</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>thought, alight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>know me, Moon,<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as a mother knows <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>its hopeful womb,<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and you enter me </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>eternal, waxing </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>full, and </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>flowing.</span></span></div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1449548263335557594.post-13880697550754572011-10-15T18:16:00.000-05:002011-10-15T18:16:52.222-05:00Poems XI<strong>Fontanel</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
Windowpane chants,<br />
withdrawn, <br />
forlorn,<br />
iris' feathery clouds,<br />
dreams drifting within.<br />
<br />
We reach like a wire --<br />
an eager connect? --<br />
distraught empty-<br />
hands,<br />
heartbroken via.<br />
<br />
Voids fill us, <br />
doubts' blackened folds,<br />
a questioning tear --<br />
who?<br />
One answer:<br />
we are but alone's<br />
gaping insides; <br />
itself's yearnful thoughts, <br />
beauties, evils --<br />
nothing<br />
and everything,<br />
thudding.<br />
<br />
Then a realize, alight,<br />
the white knowledge sea<br />
sinks us to float <br />
on this:<br />
our windows,<br />
alarmingly sharp,<br />
let in<br />
<em>or</em> reflect,<br />
eitherway<br />
flashing extreme.<br />
<br />
Hologram colors<br />
spout from our souls<br />
should we open <br />
and dare of the world.<br />
Cellophane glass,<br />
now broken ajar --<br />
shards vaulted aloft<br />
and free.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>synapse</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
heartbeat-<br />
ing fast as<br />
stars fret in bits<br />
and pieces of glass;<br />
memory thoughts,<br />
drops of a lark,<br />
desist.<br />
<br />
night presses on,<br />
we are dark drowning soon,<br />
but hope is in leaves<br />
falling from trees --<br />
autumn comes quick, <br />
though winter is still.<br />
<br />
and then it is spring,<br />
seeded of dawn,<br />
and all is renewed,<br />
like my roots under you,<br />
cossettes of nests in true.<br />
<br />
youth disappears,<br />
now tumbling quick,<br />
but newness finds us<br />
like the stars of our hearts --<br />
and our wishfulling end <br />
then finds a start.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1449548263335557594.post-73645022521056770632011-09-30T14:03:00.000-05:002011-10-02T10:15:58.057-05:00Sport and Sweet<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div> <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMEN8dAOCfg6LfesJC80wl2KI0pIZPslHTetLSZsq2EpRDoikYPdl-k4DKyG6dw44XmeY0yVLmGegqB1CaiRCYBge-Ua80lUbFdaY3w7LBwTCZ8LGNELO8YxoxzApibeSPUfo6OeXjAv91/s1600/2011_09_27_18_07_24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMEN8dAOCfg6LfesJC80wl2KI0pIZPslHTetLSZsq2EpRDoikYPdl-k4DKyG6dw44XmeY0yVLmGegqB1CaiRCYBge-Ua80lUbFdaY3w7LBwTCZ8LGNELO8YxoxzApibeSPUfo6OeXjAv91/s400/2011_09_27_18_07_24.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here I am, very vigorously competing on the high school tennis team.<br />
I am, in fact, so unfazed, I might as well be spending <br />
a pleasant afternoon shopping at Contempo Casuals.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Growing up, I was supremely unathletic. It was the bane of my existence, particularly during elementary school P.E., when I was always picked last, even after Elizabeth Koppel, and she had a prosthetic hand. (Lucky! Why did <em>she</em> get to get out of playing volleyball?!) I was awkward and skinny-fat (a euphemism for out-of-shape), competition scared me, and I had better things to do, like chewing my hangnails and poring over old copies of "Betty and Veronica." This all changed in college, when I finally grew into my body, and now I'm downright obsessed with exercising -- but before I get into that, here are a few of my most <em>awesome</em> encounters with sports:<br />
<br />
Starting around age 10, my parents decided I would be a great candidate for soccer, as this sport seemed the least physically threatening, if not out-and-out European (a.k.a. "feminine"). I remember two particular events from this short-lived pigskin pastime: 1) my parents maniacally yelling at me, "Run the OTHER way, Sarah! The OTHER way!!!" (clearly, I was a total fucking genius) and 2) biding my time in goalie position (the team put me here as there was the "least" to do) and happily discovering I could tuck my eyelashes into my eyelids (<em>finally</em>!), then suddenly hearing my mom cry out, "The ball, Sarah! Look up! NOW!!!" Two seconds later I felt a "whack!" on the side of my head similar to the the feeling of being beaten with my brother's light saber (not an uncommon occurrence). I was down for the count, but I had blocked my first goal! Yessss!!! The sweet smell of victory.<br />
<br />
Then, in junior high, I decided to try out for cheerleading. Ooooh...painful. During my tryouts I performed a little number my dad had given to me from the 1950's called, "Go Back!" It went something like this:<br />
<br />
"Go back, go back, go back into the woods!<br />
You haven't, you haven't, you haven't got the goods!<br />
You haven't got the power, and you haven't got the jazz --<br />
and you haven't got the team that Matilija has!!!"<br />
<br />
Smartly, I had subsituted my junior high's name (Matilija), AND made up my own accompanying graceful and astonishing moves, which consisted of a lot of fast-paced twirling, powerful muscle flexing, and delightful finger snapping. As my mother watched me perform, she actually became so embarassed for me that she ran and hid in the bushes behind the snack truck (nothing like a proud parent to boost one's confidence!). But guess what?! I made the team! And for four months afterward, during the junior high football games, I continued twirling, muscle flexing (no finger-snapping, though -- they made me stop that), and still have no idea what the difference between "offense" and "defense" was. Gooooo Matilija!!!<br />
<br />
As the years progressed, I learned to cite "feminine issues" on days we were to play football and/or dodgeball (I am still terrified of the latter, and have no idea why or how this is even a sport). Eventually I made my way to the swim team in high school, and that was the first sport that I was -- dare I say it? -- <em>good</em> at. I continued to swim a bit in college, but then I discovered that hangovers didn't go well with 7:00 AM practices, so I called it quits. As you can see, my perserverance at athleticism was unsurpassed.<br />
<br />
These days I work out at a gym in Houston called, "The Houstonian" (super original name). I run, do yoga, take kickboxing classes (which is really therapeutic when you are in a fight with someone -- sometimes it is just so healing to imagine bashing someone's face in), and basically spend such ridiculous amounts of time there, that it could either be considered my second home, or maybe my church (although instead of getting anointed with oils, I find myself frequently getting anointed with other people's sweat -- wow, yum). I would love to be able to exercise outside, but Houston's weather doesn't really accomodate that, and, besides, the people watching at The Houstonian is just so fun.<br />
<br />
There's the exercise addicts, who complain that the cardio classes are not "fast" enough, there's the weekenders, who complain that the cardio classes are <em>too</em> fast, there's the yoga junkies, who have that unique patchouli smell thing going, there's the spin people, who are just plain psycho, and then there's the harried parents, who primarily use the gym for its child-care facilities. I fall somewhere in between, with the exception of the patchouli. And f.y.i. all you new agers, it kind of smells, um, <em>bad</em>.<br />
<br />
While competitive sports and ordinary exercising may not exactly be the same thing, I do feel like I have come full circle to a certain extent. Whereas once I didn't feel comfortable in my own skin, or with my own shape, now I feel proud of it, even of my itty-bitty breasts, which were the part of me I was most self-conscious about. We are all incredibly unique, and I figured that I would either self-change or own what God had given me, and that includes my insides too.<br />
<br />
And with that, I have only a few words left to say: just do it, dig deep, and nameste -- but mostly, of course, game on!Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1449548263335557594.post-47751349204541195392011-09-16T14:12:00.000-05:002011-09-16T14:12:40.967-05:00Holidaze <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis4TPn1b37ArKigSDMLr6LoUz9sNZMVwbNlEUbIsh9hIiQtbbiZNlctXOm9wuW8jZonmzFhGuSN2QMzplRN1w4K4mBmrFjB6FkDz6fcAI0OhxeBnW5F9BFwGVKd7f0d82_nl2OYtxouWEE/s1600/IMG_0470.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis4TPn1b37ArKigSDMLr6LoUz9sNZMVwbNlEUbIsh9hIiQtbbiZNlctXOm9wuW8jZonmzFhGuSN2QMzplRN1w4K4mBmrFjB6FkDz6fcAI0OhxeBnW5F9BFwGVKd7f0d82_nl2OYtxouWEE/s320/IMG_0470.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My dad carving our Thanksgiving turkey.<br />
Nothing says masculine like an apron with multicolored pots and pans on it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
Guess what?! The holidays are upon us! Guess what else?! I'm fucking freaking out about it! Not that I don't <em>like</em> the holidays or anything, but there's just so darn much to <em>do</em>. (You like how I use the expletive, "fucking," in the first line of this post, and then the prudish peep, "darn," in the second? I'm kind of erratic like that. That's why, when driving, I like to flip rude drivers the bird, and simultaneously scream out the window, "Meanypants!") So, in just a few short weeks, there will be costumes and parties and cooking and shopping and presents and parties and holiday cards and screaming at the kids at Picture People, oh, and let's not forget hundreds of thousands of dollars oozing out of our pockets at a ridiculous pace. So really, what's not to like?<br />
<br />
The bottom line is, we all have our very individual and unique relationships with the holiday season. Mine started when, at age two, I was a princess every Halloween for EIGHT years in a row. I just couldn't get enough of the <em>sparkles</em>! (That's the cross-dresser in me speaking.) After age 10, I went the other end of the spectrum and dressed up as a devil, a jailbird (complete with face stubble!), a Rubik's cube and Elvis -- all at once. Not really, but, to be honest, getting the Vaseline out of my hair with that Elvis costume was a total bitch -- for a week it looked like someone had poured a container of Hershey's chocolate syrup over my scalp. Mmmm...pretty <em>and </em>yummy. I was positively precious.<br />
<br />
Speaking of precious, last year I attended a Halloween party for the first time in aeons, and I dressed up as -- what else? -- a "Slutty Mummy," which is completely and totally <em>normal</em> when you are a mother of three. Unfortunately, I didn't get nearly the amount of attention I was hoping for. Turns out, ALL the adult Halloween costumes are actually just slutty versions of regular costumes. That night, my girlfriends and I saw Slutty Schoolgirl, Slutty Marie Antoinette, Slutty Barbie, Slutty Nurse (yawn), Slutty Nun, and Slutty Snow White (total sacrilege!). Needless to say, this year I'm planning on going as Slutty Factory Worker, or, perhaps, the tried-and-true, Slutty Telemarketer.<br />
<br />
Then, of course, there's Thanksgiving. This has always been my favorite holiday, probably because it is the only time of year it is really ever okay to eat stuffing (who are those Stove Top people kidding, anyway?). Our preparations for Thankgiving went something like this:<br />
<br />
"Damn it, Frank, get out of the kitchen!"<br />
"Mommmmm! When is dinner? I'm borrrrred."<br />
"Goddamn it, Andy, put on a nicer shirt, and fuck you, Lynn!"<br />
"Mom, I don't have ANYTHING to wear and I hate you!"<br />
"Daaad, wipe my tushy!"<br />
<br />
Once finally seated at the dinner table, things were usually pretty pleasant. Of COURSE, we all had to go around the table and say what we were thankful for, and more often than not, when it was my turn I broke down in sobs -- and I wonder where my daughter gets it from. We usually got a lecture from my Uncle David about the importance of Squanto, friend of the Pilgrims, and after this pleasant little catnap, we would then dig into my mother's home-cooked meal. Now my mother is actually not a bad cook, especially when it came to her Thanksgiving dinner. However, there was <em>one</em> year in particular when she decided to follow a stuffing recipe that called for lemon juice -- but, oops! she realized at the last minute she didn't <em>have</em> any lemon juice. So my mother, ever resourceful, substituted the only alternative she could find in the fridge: some delicious and always useful Minute Maid lemonade. Problem solved! Talk about a memorable stuffing -- I don't think I'll ever quite get over it.<br />
<br />
As far as memorable is concerned, our family's Christmases were just that. We had a very sacrosanct and traditional Noel that involved what I like to think of as a spiritual clusterfuck of presents, presents, and more presents. My dad is a huge gift-giver, so not only would my brother and I have giant and bountiful crocheted stockings (<em>plus </em>they expanded!), but we would also have a mountain of presents under the tree. After the <em>two hours</em> it took for the stockings to be opened, the Kirk family's Christmas spirit really came alive as we all began maniacally shrieking over whose turn it was to be Santa this year. Simultaneously, my dad would begin fastidiously hovering over everyone with a Hefty bag in his heroic mission to retrieve <em>every </em>piece of ripped wrapping paper before it hit the ground. All this, combined with Manheim Steamroller's Christmas album playing at full blast, a living room of four very excited and barking dogs, and my brother's incessant demands for, "more eggnog, MOM!!!" and you can imagine just how incredibly relaxing, if not downright holy, this all was.<br />
<br />
My favorite part of this holiday was, and still is, Christmas night. All the presents have been opened and put away, and all that's left is the beautiful solitary tree standing alone in my parents' darkened living room. (My dad, ever the artist, usually decorated ours to perfection. Andy and I were to follow his strict orders as to where the ornaments should go -- "little ones on top, big on the bottom!"). Staring at this peaceful, pristine, twinkling creation is, to me, one of the prettiest sights in the world, captivating.<br />
<br />
I'm not going to write about New Year's, because I really don't count that as a true "holiday," and, plus, almost every New Year's Eve I've ever had (before we decided to make our home a kid-friendly fun-zone) has been incredibly disappointing. Oh, whoops, except for that ONE time when I got totally plastered on a family cruise and finagled my way into the crew party and almost got kicked off the ship, but, really, that was <em>nothing</em>! <br />
<br />
The truth is, I do love the holidays, and as crazy as I know it's going to get around here, I wouldn't have it any other way. I feel thankful to celebrate the chaos, the togetherness, and, of course, the weight gain and hangovers, with my family and friends in a world that values traditions, if nothing else.<br />
<br />
So here's to the holidays, and here's to frontal lobotomies! Cheers!Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1449548263335557594.post-12892288571333795962011-09-09T13:52:00.000-05:002011-10-02T10:19:33.953-05:00Poems X<strong>The Moon</strong><br />
<br />
Moon, I lost you <br />
for awhile, <br />
as dark and terrified<br />
nights of wrath <br />
shamed me blamefully.<br />
And, of course, fear, <br />
my pale sibling twin,<br />
was there too, <br />
limping home, <br />
wordless.<br />
<br />
But, suddenly, <br />
the other day,<br />
while I aimed my wait,<br />
you came back to me, <br />
glowing like a ghost,<br />
fervent bright, like<br />
a fever of white love<br />
gulped too fast,<br />
brimming relief in spades.<br />
A bit of shade, <br />
thank god.<br />
<br />
Where had your cryptic orb <br />
been all this time?<br />
Why had I lost you,<br />
barren terrain <br />
mindlessed to no avail?<br />
Why had I been so blind and dull,<br />
mute, a portrait blank?<br />
<br />
I wasted myself, <br />
but, Moon, you <br />
interrupted like cataracts,<br />
gratefully --<br />
<br />
now, all at once,<br />
you seek me,<br />
and then hide <br />
my ruminating,<br />
frightened foibles,<br />
lies;<br />
the leftover anguish <br />
that is just and only mine.<br />
<br />
You are the shift in me,<br />
the space of cool <br />
within the shadow of <br />
my endless nights --<br />
gilded whims<br />
of distant thought,<br />
alight.<br />
<br />
You know me, Moon,<br />
as a mother knows <br />
its hopeful womb,<br />
and you enter me eternal,<br />
waxing full, <br />
and flowing.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Backpack</strong><br />
<br />
I'd heard You were back<br />
and I packed my bags,<br />
ready to go,<br />
to flee,<br />
to feel<br />
the earth below my feet.<br />
For there is nothing <br />
quite so frustrating as <br />
trying to be inspired <br />
by freeways and meetings,<br />
and looking <br />
for raptured beauty<br />
and seeing only concrete.<br />
<br />
But I was wrong, <br />
You weren't.<br />
So, fine then, <br />
I'll go inside myself<br />
and create visions,<br />
and images, <br />
and memories,<br />
and music,<br />
and You are not there, <br />
why?<br />
<br />
My mind is a jungle,<br />
a garden,<br />
-- luscious --<br />
but everything around me <br />
withers<br />
in hot weather,<br />
and I'm so over it,<br />
but my heart is held<br />
by children that beg me <br />
for cereal,<br />
or popsicles,<br />
or sometimes, even,<br />
hugs.<br />
<br />
I have a yearning inside<br />
trying to get free <br />
and its stumped <br />
like in Scrabble,<br />
and I'm better off this way,<br />
I know,<br />
but I can't help still wanting,<br />
and I can't help still feeling,<br />
and my days are dull,<br />
but my insides are so <br />
very, very vivid.<br />
<br />
Come back to me again, <br />
Desire,<br />
and again and again,<br />
and I will shut off the T.V. <br />
(for now)<br />
and give you my eyes, <br />
as well as my soul.<br />
<br />
Float me above the bed,<br />
and make me whole,<br />
and I will never forget<br />
and never let go,<br />
and then <br />
I will be inspired again,<br />
and concrete will seem like gardens.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1449548263335557594.post-26097108843925674592011-08-29T13:54:00.000-05:002011-08-29T13:54:48.603-05:00Poems IX<br />
<strong>where</strong><br />
<br />
where do we go<br />
with our bare cosmic selves --<br />
a lapse and a fall, <br />
and then that same fear<br />
of losing control of all that is dear --<br />
<br />
there is nothing but nothing<br />
above and beyond,<br />
but only full greatness --<br />
<br />
and stillness<br />
of souls<br />
trapped in a world<br />
that hates them,<br />
and jails them,<br />
makes them afraid of their naked pressed hearts,<br />
lovely intense in full hurt --<br />
<br />
occasions of feelings,<br />
flesh and blood still,<br />
though beings <br />
so blind,<br />
seeking inside<br />
does shout terrified --<br />
<br />
dare we open ourselves<br />
to our finally selves,<br />
and look for the truth <br />
of an ache,<br />
or a haunt,<br />
or a wanting within --<br />
<br />
lest we burn out the lie<br />
like a sun in the desert,<br />
like a punch in the gut,<br />
like a fire on fire on fire --<br />
<br />
we have nothing to fear<br />
but the desire to live,<br />
the desire to feel,<br />
the desire to be --<br />
<br />
now a spring of our well,<br />
and a spill of our selves --<br />
a fall down and up,<br />
a journeying trip,<br />
a life unescorted<br />
to One.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Dayfull</strong><br />
<br />
Complacent, at best,<br />
though I thought I was full,<br />
and a rip through my artfully,<br />
hopeless spun life <br />
changed me forever,<br />
for better.<br />
<br />
Sunshine and dreams<br />
and a throat woven gold --<br />
you peeled off<br />
yourself <br />
for a moment of real,<br />
and then there was us,<br />
two pleading palm fronds<br />
in front of each other,<br />
just then, but for always,<br />
swaying in breezes,<br />
almost (but not)<br />
touching the tips<br />
of our leaves.<br />
<br />
Our suns melted down,<br />
liquid and burned,<br />
but imbued with a hope<br />
of a moon full of you,<br />
anew with my I<br />
(and a crystalline thundering sky).<br />
<br />
This nightingale night<br />
is the wake of my breath,<br />
the windchilly swear<br />
of my soul.<br />
<br />
Imploring,<br />
exploring,<br />
I'll never go back.<br />
I am not the same girl,<br />
I am not the same self,<br />
I will flow and continue<br />
to dream in full color<br />
and beaches, <br />
and reach for the heavens<br />
I have here on earth.<br />
<br />
I have unswept myself,<br />
I have filled you with dust,<br />
and now I can know <br />
what I did not dare know --<br />
<br />
it was <em>me</em> who created<br />
and made me myself,<br />
a new me within<br />
(though with you without),<br />
forever my ever,<br />
but better.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1449548263335557594.post-40262905267735749752011-08-24T20:30:00.000-05:002011-08-24T20:30:07.387-05:00Small Talking <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAyq214AGS3DKe0tIbAChItUGKFwNcy23wqtdVa6G4zqHrwWOrN_bpl4f4iByc3mN3xQzOm_-uDt9ngsDSgmmM6aPKKtQjaDtgc60LL5rC2AINrytrpXYA8hBiusnSEehWW3MnGzECnL7E/s1600/2011_08_23_14_36_18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAyq214AGS3DKe0tIbAChItUGKFwNcy23wqtdVa6G4zqHrwWOrN_bpl4f4iByc3mN3xQzOm_-uDt9ngsDSgmmM6aPKKtQjaDtgc60LL5rC2AINrytrpXYA8hBiusnSEehWW3MnGzECnL7E/s320/2011_08_23_14_36_18.jpg" width="228" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is me around the age when I started Cotillion.<br />
It's no wonder the boys were banging down my door --<br />
my sex appeal is unmistakable.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
Before I met my husband, Steven, I went on, like, a million blind dates. I was always the eternal optimist, believing that <em>this</em> guy could actually be the one. I would also date five or six guys at once, letting them take me to dinner, maybe kissing them goodnight, but that was it -- had to keep them wanting more, you know? (shut up, Amy) At one point, I actually kept a whiteboard up with all the names of my suitors, and the days of the week I was to rendezvous with them. That was a capital F-U-N time, but, as you can imagine, there were disastrous moments, as well. So I thought I'd recap some of my most darling dating catastrophes -- and there were many.<br />
<br />
The first time I became mildly interested in boys was during my forced and unbearably awkward ballroom dance education, also known as, "Cotillion." I was 13, and my mom and I would feverishly shop at The Wind in the Willows (the only exclusively kids' store in Ojai) for Laura Ashley dresses (50% off, of course). I would don these frothy, floral, below-the-knee concoctions (mmm...pretty), pouf up my bangs, and stuff my little white gloves (these were required) into my plastic purse of choice. Once inside the ballroom, the girls would sit on one side of the room, while the boys would huddle in another. Then, the Cotillion directors, Mr. and Mrs. Martine, would float in, as if they were celebrities, and would denominate us young "ladies" and "gentlemen." They would perform a few of the numbers we were to be learning that evening, and, I swear, they really got a kick out of all the pre-teen attention. After the directors floated away, it was then up to the boys. They would amble across the room, pick one of us lucky little ladies, and we would commence the foxtrot, the waltz, the cha-cha, or the polka, just to name a few. This is where I can honestly say I have never, EVER had the opportunity to use these dance steps again, although I still remember them vividly, probably because they were forever infused in my brain with rote memorization, and, of course, electro-shock therapy. (Occasionally, though, when I'm feeling especially lonely, I crank up the Hungarian music and polka naked by myself -- it's so very healing.) Anyway, during these one-on-one dances, I would feel the slightly sweaty back of my partner, or smell his Old Spice mixed with his beguiling body odor, and I would almost get lightheaded with hormonal imbalance. <br />
<br />
Midway through the evening, my partner of the moment was supposed to escort me to a chair along the perimeter of the room, while I was to take off my little white gloves and hand them to him. He then folded them (smushed them) into his inside suit pocket. He would go to the snack table, and get us two Chips Ahoy cookies (fancy!), two napkins, and two sodas, and bring them back to where we were sitting. This is when the hard part began. We were supposed to make "small talk," according to Mr. and Mrs. Martine. The only problem is, small talk is really difficult when you're 13 and obsessing that you probably have a chocolate chip stuck in your braces, while simultaneously thinking that your partner's ears look exactly like Spock's from Star Trek. Needless to say, I had my work cut out for me.<br />
<br />
Ten years later, I was still working on my date-worthy small talk. On one particularly horrendous blind date, a guy comes to pick me up at my house with a face that looks like melted wax, a head that's as bald as my knee (and this is before bald was cool), and a body that says, simply, Stay-Puf marshmallow. I determinedly put looks aside (as I'm inwardly cursing my "friend" who set us up), and decide to make the best of it. He asks me if I like baseball, he has tickets. Yes! It is a perfect activity for two people who have absolutely <em>nothing</em> in common! Great, he says, the game is in Anaheim! What the...? I was expecting a hop, skip, and a jump over to Dodgers Stadium, but Anaheim??? In Friday night traffic, that's three hours away, at best. Shit, it's too late, I've already said yes. I crawl into his Mazda Miata, grit my teeth, and prepare myself for some <em>riveting</em> small talk. Small talk that slowly becomes...heavy as fuck! Turns out, the guy had had brain cancer, lost his pituitary gland, is on steroids for the rest of his life, and no longer produces testosterone. This is promising.<br />
<br />
Seven hours, an interminable drive, a boring baseball game, and a soft-pretzel-for-dinner later, I am absolutely DRAINED. I have small-talked until my mouth foamed, praised the guy effusively, and been blatantly over-the-top <em>nice</em> -- because, well, how could I <em>not</em> be? When he walks me to the door and leans in for a kiss...aaack! what do I do? I duck. That's right, you heard me. Poor guy never knew what hit him. And it wasn't even a foul ball.<br />
<br />
A few months later I agree to go out with the son of one of my grandmother's best friends (what, in God's name, was I possibly <em>thinking</em>?! Oh, that's right. I wasn't.) He picks me up and takes me to the one of cheesiest and most obvious Italian restaurants in L.A., and after 2 hours of mindless small talk, he suggests frozen yogurt for dessert. I should have said no, because I already knew that I had <em>zero</em> interest in the guy (and, let's face it, you always pretty much know immediately), but at that point in my life I was absolutely <em>infatuated</em> with non-dairy, sugar-free, fat-free frozen yogurt (I mean, who wasn't? It only tasted <em>exactly</em> like Elmer's Paste, but with fewer calories -- yum!). So we're at Penguins, and suddenly he pulls out his cell phone (impressive -- not everyone had cells back then), and starts dialing someone. Next thing I know, I hear, "Mom, it's me. Do you want me and Sarah to bring you and Dad some frozen yogurt? You do? Great! We'll be right over!" Oh fuck! I <em>knew</em> I should have turned down the fro-yo!<br />
<br />
Twenty minutes later, I'm sitting at the kitchen table of the parents of some guy I'm not even interested in, small talking some <em>more</em>. Only now, the small talk has to be extra polite and formal. I'm absolutely withering inside, and silently wishing for a garage full of carbon monoxide. After a solid hour-and-a-half of this, I plead that I have to get up early for work the next morning, and, when he finally drops me off, I race inside before he even has time to go in for a hug. And I couldn't even yell at the person who set me up, because it was my GRANDMA! But I did vow to be a tad more careful about who I let set me up in the future: no carnival ride attendants, no homeless people, and <em>definitely</em> no grandparents.<br />
<br />
There are so many more of these types of stories, that I could go on forever. I went on dates with younger guys, older guys, <em>much</em> older guys, actors, Kermit the Frog (I wish!), politicians, one guy who told me his mom had paid him $500 to go out with me (so sweet of him to tell me!), the works. But there was one guy who, when asked to go on a date with me, said <em>no</em>, not interested. And that turned out to be the <strong>best</strong> blind date I was never set up on, because that particular guy turned out to be my husband.<br />
<br />
But THAT, my friends, is a whole other story entirely.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1449548263335557594.post-34226292560871408892011-08-06T14:29:00.000-05:002011-08-06T14:29:07.584-05:00Summer Solace<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAFmrjiO3Jf7VS52zLBrJcaRewoo_REFZAHXX-JT8zh8H1WPNK-wCpiB6iL8sl_aUEhYvQ2hFRVWYw63pz_7lFv49VcBYmLdaOeNoHvwOVzJdwTRoSAFkE_7nvgffrCvXGvS8ohrQQ2P2t/s1600/IMG-20110628-00119.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAFmrjiO3Jf7VS52zLBrJcaRewoo_REFZAHXX-JT8zh8H1WPNK-wCpiB6iL8sl_aUEhYvQ2hFRVWYw63pz_7lFv49VcBYmLdaOeNoHvwOVzJdwTRoSAFkE_7nvgffrCvXGvS8ohrQQ2P2t/s320/IMG-20110628-00119.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from my parents' house in Santa Barbara!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>To those of you that follow this blog, you know that I recently spent the summer in Santa Barbara with family. I feel so incredibly fortunate to have gotten to spend <i>six weeks</i> in one of the most beautiful, idyllic places on earth. My parents' house is an absolute haven, the weather is perfect, and the California coastline is where I feel most happy and unfettered. But, before I go into it, I need to, first and foremost, thank my husband, Steven, for giving me the freedom to do this -- it is beyond generous of him, especially since he has to stay behind in Houston and work. I know this is often lonely for him, and, furthermore, Houston's heat in the summertime is, to put it mildly, treacherous. So, thank you, Steven, for giving me and the kids the gift of these delicious California summers -- they are what I oftentimes live for, as I will always be a California girl in my heart.<br />
<br />
So I thought I'd write about what these summertime days are like -- days that are tranquil vibrations of sunshine and beaches interspersed with the occasional piercing scream of "Fuck you, Frank!" or the hyperventilated sob of Bella's: "AM I a drama queen?! No, tell me, <i>really</i>, AM I a drama queen?!!" Or even, the mind-jolting strains of my brother's yet-to-be-named speed-metal band (Andy is the drummer, and, you guessed it, his band practices in my parents' garage. It's such a bizarre paradox: the peaceful isolation of the pristine mountains combined with the harshest and loudest music possible -- the hills really are alive with the Sound of Vomit. I want to play the oldest sister who gets wooed by a neo-nazi skinhead, and then makes best friends with the live-in maid, Josefina, and her two sons, Johnny and Victor, and their giant pet python. Other than the skinhead part, all that other stuff is true.)<br />
<br />
We wake up in the morning around 7:00, and, after Teddy and Charlie enjoy an invigorating match of naked wrestling (ummm...and I think by now you can guess who usually wins -- yes, that's right, the scrappy 3-year-old punk who thinks he's 12), I force some S'mores Pop Tarts down their throats -- but, don't worry, I make them drink chocolate milk with those things. (For someone who prides herself on being such a California girl, the healthy eating thing hasn't quite kicked in yet. Working on it, though. Tomorrow I may even give my kids <i>strawberry</i> Pop Tarts -- that counts as fruit, right?) Now that they're properly fed and adrenalized with massives doses of sugar, what do I do? I send them to camp, of course.<br />
<br />
After a lengthy argument with my father over who can use the car for the day, I stuff the offspring into the trunk (gotcha), and drop their tiny asses off at art camp, or Presbycamp (a perfect fit since we're Jewish), or theater camp (that one was really fun -- hearing my daughter screech the lyrics to every High School Musical song ever made <i>never</i> got old), or marine biology camp, or mastering quantum physics camp (okay, no...made that one up), I'm free untill 3:00! Yeah!!! So then, to celebrate, I take a leisurely hour-long run, and breathe in the perfect California air and take in the sweeping views of the ocean. (On one of these runs, I actually got so distracted, that I didn't notice a dog had charged through his electric fence and was aiming his mongrel teeth at my leg. He did bite me, I did bleed, I did get a tetanus shot, and I did mentally note, <i>again</i>, that I am not, nor ever will be, a dog person.)<br />
<br />
After my jog and a shower, I meet up with my mom and my aunt for lunch. We discuss very intellectual topics at length, such as, whose toenails are prettier, whose smile is weirder, or "How to color your gray hairs with a Sharpie." Then we shop, we toodle, we do some blow (okay, not really -- but it's just so fun to tease), and I run to pick up the kids from camp. WOW, how the days fly when you are doing absolutely <i>nothing</i>!<br />
<br />
Once home, the kids and I go down to my parents' house (we stay in the guest house) where the pool is at. This is always fun, and a really good energy burner. Especially when I force them to do twenty laps of the butterfly -- no rest periods. Then I go up, shower them, more naked wrestling, shove them in their jammies and go down again for dinner with my parents. This is when the fun really begins. Teddy starts crawling on the floor looking for table scraps with my parents' cranky and mildly obese dogs, Gucci and Bear, Charlie starts screaming because...well, simply, <i>because</i>, and Bella begins performing the modern dance routine she learned at Pageant Camp (kidding again -- I really can't stop). A giant vein dangerously protrudes out of my dad's neck as his face gets beet red, and my mom starts yelling at me that the kids drink way too much water and that it's just not <i>healthy</i>. She subsequently insists that they drink fruit punch while giving me dirty looks when they plead for water, Grandma, just this once, please??? Meanwhile, my mother, herself, is like a camel and urinates once every 18 hours.<br />
<br />
At this point, we're all ready to part ways, and the kids and I head back up the driveway to the guest house. Along the way, Teddy collects a sweaty handful of roly-poly bugs (what are those things called, anyway?), while Charlie strips and gets naked <i>again</i>, and begins maniacally running through the garden Lord of the Flies style. Then after a rational and logical discussion with Teddy as to why the roly-polies can<i>not</i> sleep in his bed with him, it's lights out, finally.<br />
<br />
The piece-de-resistance is the bedtime dialogue with Bella. As I'm hunkered down (a.k.a. hiding) in the other room, the little ditty goes something like this:<br />
<br />
Bella: "Goodnight, Mom."<br />
me: "Goodnight, Bella."<br />
Bella: "Thank you for everything."<br />
me: "You're welcome, Bella."<br />
Bella: "We're going to have so much fun tomorrow."<br />
me: "So much fun."<br />
Bella: "Mwah!" (this is her making a kissing noise)<br />
me: "Mwah."<br />
Bella: "Sorry, Mom."<br />
me: "Don't worry, Bella."<br />
Bella: "Thank you, Mom."<br />
me: "You're welcome, Bella."<br />
Bella: "Sorry!"<br />
me: "Don't worry, Bella."<br />
Bella: "Mwah"<br />
me: "Mwah."<br />
Bella: "Good night!"<br />
me: "Good night."<br />
Bella: "We're going to have so much fun tomorrow!"<br />
me: "So much fun."<br />
Bella: "Mwah!"<br />
me: "Mwah."<br />
(Repeat entire conversation approximately 6 to 10 more times.)<br />
<br />
By the time I crawl into bed, I'm utterly exhausted, but also totally grateful and appreciative for each and every wonderful minute I spend in Santa Barbara. My beautiful summers there boost me ways I never thought possible, and I know my children will have a lifetime of memories from their incredible adventures.<br />
<br />
And, to my parents, thank you for sharing your home and your lives with us -- I know we weren't always easy, but, God, we had fun. <br />
<br />
Oh, and, by the way, there's a live lizard somewhere in the guest house, and Charlie clogged the toilet. You're the <i>best</i>!!!Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1449548263335557594.post-53921421187548570302011-07-26T16:52:00.000-05:002011-07-26T17:07:14.753-05:00It's a Colorful Life<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD8ttCnoLDDFs_fWPkyCYFS40qA1_offmfQXnp2NBSOlYM5ihoJ3iP0eDaDtNm2RMFGT8PdxtLfwZlLk-cO7cgRhwM6Cr-zEMZYbxUp6pK7x5w2GQDt9KkvFM66MFcf7RjNCcQx37ATQ2L/s1600/ColorHouse.small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD8ttCnoLDDFs_fWPkyCYFS40qA1_offmfQXnp2NBSOlYM5ihoJ3iP0eDaDtNm2RMFGT8PdxtLfwZlLk-cO7cgRhwM6Cr-zEMZYbxUp6pK7x5w2GQDt9KkvFM66MFcf7RjNCcQx37ATQ2L/s400/ColorHouse.small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My aunt and uncle's unbelievable house!<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Since I've been spending the summer with family in Santa Barbara, I've gotten a lot of quality time with loved ones, particularly my mother's sister, adorable Aunt Jane. Every time I am with her, I am happily reminded of how wonderfully original and special she is, and, in fact, how truly inspirational she is to me. <br />
<br />
Let me begin by saying that Aunt Jane is all about...color! As in, lots of it. Her eclectic wardrobe consists of fuchsia, chartreuse, marigold, aqua, violet, magenta (wait, is that the same as fuchsia?), and every other vibrant and tropical color you can think of. Her shoes, eyeglasses, and jewelry are equally as radiant. Sometimes I'll walk into her closet and get the surreal feeling that I have entered a giant box of Crayolas (which is not an altogether unpleasant feeling). Her house, as you can see above, is the same, although perhaps a bit more pastelly than her wardrobe, creating a retro Barbie Dream House vibe, although much cooler and less pink. To put it mildly, my aunt has <em>vision --</em> a unique, extraordinary, <i>beautiful</i> vision.<br />
<br />
Jane has a large halo of blond, curly hair and is taller than pretty much everyone else in the family, including me. She has a beatific and contagious smile, and is always quick and eager to laugh. She has a deep warmth that emanates out of her, and she gives the BEST hugs in the world (If you ever meet her, ask for one -- I can guarantee she'll indulge you!). But, more than anything else, Jane is talented, artistic and creative. As I mentioned above, Jane has unparalleled vision, and this vision translates perfectly into her art form of choice: photography. Jane will take gorgeous shots of cities, dogs, gardens, cars, you name it, and she will either hand-paint the super-enlarged prints, or she will computerize saturated color onto them. Some of her shots are abstract, some are realistic, but in the end, they all become extraordinary transcendants of color and fantasy and joy. For that is what Aunt Jane is all about: joy. And her love for life totally permeates her color-soaked artwork. Her photographs are what the world would look like if we lived in a state of perpetual rapture, or, perhaps, perpetual fantasy.<br />
<br />
Jane tenaciously marches to the beat of her own drum, and I suppose that is what I admire most about her. She is not concerned with what anyone thinks about her, her choices, or her art. She has consistently stayed true to herself and her artful perspective since she graduated UCLA as a painting major. She became a full-time artist in 1988, and has since shown in museums and galleries all around the world. Never once in her vast career has Jane's viewpoint faltered or swayed in the least. <br />
<br />
Jane is a free spirit, amazingly generous, and one of my very best friends. She has always been like a second mother to me, frequently calming my own mother down, and balancing out my mother's tightly-wound nervousness with her own laid-back and carefree demeanor. (The only thing Jane can be a tad obsessive about is the weather. She checks out a plethora of climates from cities around the world <i>every day</i>, and talks about the weather ad nauseum. I actually find this little quirk of hers precious, and quite useful if I suddenly have the urge to know the exact temperature in Taipei.) To round things out more, Jane and her husband, David, live exactly two minutes from my parents. My mom and aunt walk in botanical gardens every morning, speak on the phone at least 15 times daily, and fanatically shop together like it's sport (including tackling fellow shoppers/victims who dare to get in their way. A Fendi purse 70% off? Don't even <i>think</i> of trying to intercept.).<br />
<br />
The three of us have traveled together to places far and wide -- from France, to Italy, to Switzerland, to Palm Springs. On our trips, we shop, we eat, we see movies, we go to museums, but, more than anything, we laugh. On one of our flights over to Italy, the movie onboard was "The Mighty Ducks" (yes, I am dating myself again), and after that none of us could stop quacking. As the trip progressed, the word, "quack," surreptitiously became a euphemism for a handsome man. We would see a gorgeous Italiano walking down the streets of Florence, and one of us would quack so the other two knew to look up and pay attention, <em>pronto</em>. The funny thing is, we haven't stopped quacking since. This technique may not be the most subtle thing in the world to get someone to pay heed, but it is actually verrrry effective. I've occasionally tried it in bars with girlfriends, but inevitably I receive a blank stare in return as if I am in the stages of early dementia.<br />
<br />
To sum it up, Jane has not only taught me not to be afraid of color (why <i>do</i> we shy away from it so much?), but also not to be afraid of life. She has shown me that life is meant to be enjoyed and soaked up and experienced and treasured. So, thank you for teaching me that, Jane, and thank you, too, for always being a shoulder to cry on, a girlfriend to laugh with, and the best arm-scratcher in the world. Happy, happy birthday, and I love you!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
And F.Y.I., my aunt's otherworldly website is: <a href="http://www.janegottlieb.com/">http://www.janegottlieb.com/</a>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1449548263335557594.post-49808213272689275932011-07-05T12:22:00.000-05:002011-07-05T12:22:18.284-05:00Poems VIIIIt is virtually <i>impossible</i> for me to write while at my parents' house in Santa Barbara, as there are waaaaaay too many distractions (plus, three kids on my own!), but here are a couple of poems I wrote recently:<b><br />
</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Dusk</b><br />
<br />
<br />
Clear was your touch<br />
as twilight breathed into day's exhale,<br />
and velvet moonlight sighed.<br />
<br />
We returned to each other<br />
in these grassy lavender spaces,<br />
where the voids of our secret middles<br />
gasped, then met<br />
in silence.<br />
<br />
Our silhouetted mountains<br />
protected us, transformed us --<br />
we were small and diminutive compared to their size.<br />
We saw only whispers of colors;<br />
we heard only whooshing once more.<br />
<br />
And though our riverbed dreams flashed uncertain,<br />
and though our souls cleave us still,<br />
we lost,<br />
then found each other,<br />
as we loved -- <br />
fully and finally,<br />
and finally again.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Tidepool</b><br />
<br />
<br />
My anenome essence<br />
blossoms like the lotus flower,<br />
clarinet falsettos weeping in the afternoon.<br />
<br />
This ebbing home, <br />
my seashell heart,<br />
a prayered and lovely secret mollusk,<br />
curved and tender,<br />
pure. <br />
<br />
Bowls of sparkling seaweed brine,<br />
Shakti's mighty ocean,<br />
pool and curl my wetland home,<br />
my flowing algae shore.<br />
<br />
To you, although,<br />
I am a rock's<br />
stubborned old<br />
barnacle lone,<br />
spitting your deafened eye<br />
with watersalt.<br />
<br />
So have then my shell --<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">my hollow, brittle shell,</div><div style="margin: 0px;">but that, to you, is all.</div><br />
And thus, and thus,<br />
I shall remain<br />
with the rhythmed, lilting, crying tides --<br />
my mournful, breaking Sound,<br />
forever mine.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1449548263335557594.post-40132864463570634552011-06-14T13:56:00.000-05:002011-06-15T12:45:22.446-05:00Beaching It<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTNGYDAOZre5Bb4GLAicSPvNbPoflMlWw1PIivV_KeJTRgm71lPK7l71HvlBx3aRHVaxnX9z6Ie66eazw2U-wHdBnEpiWL8bZLvMO_BB81EZK3gHIlPt16D9Cx7nSa9voY15TUSFSQfIdw/s1600/2011_06_13_13_43_01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTNGYDAOZre5Bb4GLAicSPvNbPoflMlWw1PIivV_KeJTRgm71lPK7l71HvlBx3aRHVaxnX9z6Ie66eazw2U-wHdBnEpiWL8bZLvMO_BB81EZK3gHIlPt16D9Cx7nSa9voY15TUSFSQfIdw/s400/2011_06_13_13_43_01.jpg" t8="true" width="272px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My parents, grandparents, and me on our beach house patio.<br />
My dad is holding our dachsund, Oscar. </td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
All right, who am I kidding? It is just not even <em>remotely</em> possible for me to stop reminscing about my past. In my last post I brazenly wrote, "That's it, I'm moving on to present day now." But then I started thinking about impending summer and its associated activities, and -- wouldn't you know it? -- my mind goes to my grandparents' old beach house in Malibu. I can't help it, I'm a sucker for nostalgia. I'm also probably mentally going there because I'm getting ready to spend the summer in California, and, for me, that feels nostalgic too, as that is where I feel most at home. Houston is wonderful in many ways, but, when I think about specifically where I really feel most like me, it would have to be the state that I grew up in (as is probably true for most people). So, with that being said, and in order to start the summer off right, I have to describe what was one of the true highlights and beauties of my youth.<br />
<br />
My grandparents, Milton and Pat (such throwback names -- really, can we please bring back the name, "Milton?"), owned a beach house in Trancas, which is a few miles past Malibu. The house itself was simple and unadorned, though spacious and comfortable. The walls were all white, inside and outside, and the floor was dark brown Mexican tile. The back patio, where we ate most of our meals, was brick, and beyond that were pockets and hills of iceplant, usually blooming with little yellow flowers. Beyond the iceplant was, of course, the beach. When I was little, we used to burn our feet on the sand trying to run from the patio to the ocean, as the beach itself was so wide. But later, with erosion, the water came up much, much closer, and now I've heard the water comes right up to the patio. This makes me sad for three reasons. One, for the fact that since my grandparents died I haven't been back to see the beach house and what's become of it. It's now long lost to me, a piece of my heart and memory that I'll never experience again. Two, because the earth is changing so much -- with erosion, global warming, etc. -- and to be able to witness changes like this reiterates that the earth, like ourselves, is perpetually shifting. What once seemed like the most consistent thing in the world to me -- this beautiful stretch of beach -- has all but disappeared. And three, because it reminds me that I'm getting, oh God, old.<br />
<br />
Anyway, it was along this beach that I had some of my favorite summertime memories. The first thing we would do upon arrival was make a beeline for the ocean. Once in the surf, my brother, Andy, and I played a hellish little game called, "Whose Body Can Go Numb Faster?" The water really is <em>that </em>cold. After we were sufficiently numb, we would dive and bodysurf, and let the waves pummel us into pulp. (A few years later I actually attempted surfing...once. It wasn't pretty, in fact, it was downright ugly.) Eventually my eyes and lungs would stop functioning due to an inordinate amount of ingested saltwater, and I would bundle up in a towel and crawl beneath one of the many scattered catamarans ashore the beach. I would then lay on my stomach, press my ear firmly into the sand, and eavesdrop upon the world around me. I could hear the rhythmic pound of the ocean, people's footsteps in the sand, grownups' garbled voices, dogs sniffing and shaking out their coats, everything. No one could see me, though I could see everything, and I would stay there for hours, observing, absorbing, being. It was total peace.<br />
<br />
Total peace, that is, until my reveries were interrupted by our nosy dachsund, Oscar, who would always sense just exactly where I was, and eagerly flounce to me, his ears flapping in the wind. Once he had finished licking my neck and sneezing sand in my face, he would flap his way over to my grandparents' neighbors, who were none other than Ronald and Nancy Reagan. Ronald Reagan was Governor of California at the time, and who would've thunk it, but he loved dachsunds! The Governor used to sit on a beach chair in front of his house, put Oscar on his lap, and pet that lucky dog for hours. They adored each other! This is actually the farthest anyone from our family ever got in affairs of state, though we still stake claim to this little nugget of political fame.<br />
<br />
On the other side of my grandparents' house lived an elderly husband and wife named Mr. and Mrs Trumble. The gentle, yet spritely, couple both swam in the ocean each and every day, and when Mr. Trumble passed away, Mrs. Trumble continued to swim a mile daily. I would go over to the Trumbles' and play for whole afternoons, creating tuneless songs on their piano, fussing with their trinkets, talking Mrs. Trumbles' ear off. It's funny that I still remember them and these afternoons so vividly, and it must be because they were so deeply patient and kind with me. They graciously opened their home and their hearts to me, and I could color a scribble and they oohed and aahed like it was a masterpiece.<br />
<br />
My grandparents, too, were proud of me to a fault. I could do no wrong in their eyes, and they thought I was the most beautiful and special little girl in the world. The nights we slept over, my grandmother would lay with me until I went to sleep, and, as we told stories to each other and listened to the soothing cadence of the waves, I remember never feeling safer or more secure. And I suppose that is why I am writing this tribute, not only to the beach and the beach house, but to my grandparents, as well. They have been gone for so, so long, but in me they embedded a knowledge that I could do anything and be anything. And, now that I think about it, that's really what grandparents do best, isn't it?<br />
<br />
My summers at the beach house were an innocent, tranquil time in my life -- I have never felt more peaceful, or more protected, or more loved. And I know that a piece of me will always exist at that house, no matter what happens to it, or to the coastline around it. It was a haven for me, and it will continue to be so in my heart.<br />
<br />
And, in case you're wondering (and, perhaps, a tad nauseous), yes, I'll probably always be this annoyingly sentimental -- but, really, when the world is as chaotic as it is, can you blame me?Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1449548263335557594.post-72899039233097348322011-05-23T19:39:00.000-05:002011-05-23T19:39:41.244-05:00College Daze<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlgYcPChJaNyz4yMzxzL32kbP6HCYd0uqOH5fd3pxOG76AFUr_uWBvlMi_aeFl1B0lz7drBDlcQmLeoazBJ22nb61Ir29fiC2Tly7WuYgZbLQiJyIASigKWK3-JV-mSez3RGZgIberBgNS/s1600/scripps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlgYcPChJaNyz4yMzxzL32kbP6HCYd0uqOH5fd3pxOG76AFUr_uWBvlMi_aeFl1B0lz7drBDlcQmLeoazBJ22nb61Ir29fiC2Tly7WuYgZbLQiJyIASigKWK3-JV-mSez3RGZgIberBgNS/s320/scripps.jpg" width="320px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scripps College --<br />
it's very pretty and all,<br />
but I haven't been back once since I graduated.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>There is a post I have been absolutely <em>dreading</em> to write, as it was such a dreary time in my life, but now that I have revealed and shared nearly every possible entertaining anecdote from my past, I suppose the time has come for me to get this one off my chest. Maybe then I'll be able to start writing more stuff about my present life, although going to the grocery store and carpooling six kids around a time isn't all that fascinating, as much as it is exhausting, interspersed with occasional moments of ridiculousness (like when Teddy joyously and furtively pees in my water bottle). And anyway, my poems <em>do</em> describe my present-day life, just from a more internal perspective.<br />
<br />
Okay, I'm procrastinating now. This is a post about when I went away to college, and why it was so very difficult and tumultuous for me. I was a year young for my grade, as I have mentioned before, so when I graduated high school I was 17. I had chosen to go to Scripps College, which is an all girls' (yes, I know -- what was I possibly thinking?!) liberal arts school in Claremont, California. I arrived one day in late August and I pretty much knew immediately that it wasn't for me. The girls were either all preppy, waspy and uptight, or, on the opposite end of the spectrum, they were die-hard feminists, totally rigid in their outlook of men, femininity and politics. Where did I fit in? I wasn't preppy, waspy, a feminist or political. I wasn't gay, which many of the girls were, and I craved being around boys, as well as girls. I also think that by being a year younger than everyone else, I was probably emotionally immature, and unready for a college experience in general. The school itself was beautiful to look at, but, during those first few days, I found myself aimlessly wandering around the campus thinking, "What the shit am I doing here?" After two weeks, I called my mom, and begged to come home, I just wasn't happy. She felt that I hadn't given it enough of a chance, and told me I needed to stick it out until Christmas. Well, that was it. In that moment, I shut down inside, and decided I was going to stick it out not only until Christmas, but until graduation, dammit.<br />
<br />
In writing this, it is strange for me to realize that I was able to leave the preparatory academy I went to for my freshman year in high school after only one year, while in this situation I was pretty much paralyzed. I think this must have been for two reasons: 1) I was supposed to be a grownup now, and therefore "make it" on my own, and not complain about it in the process, and 2) I was terrified to disappoint my parents, as well as the rest of the world. I had always been so eager to do what I thought was expected of me, so it made sense that everything I had worked for thus far with grades and AP classes, etc. was supposed to culminate in this: the ultimate college experience. College was meant to be BEST time in my life, as well as my academic triumph, but when reality hit and I saw that it wasn't at all like what I had expected it to be, I felt bereft, disappointed, and lost.<br />
<br />
Halfway into my first semester at Scripps, I got terrible insomnia. I wouldn't sleep for weeks on end, and this became a cycle that I didn't know how to handle on my own. I was ashamed that I was troubled by such a silly issue, and I never really discussed the full extent of it with anyone, not even my parents. I went to the school doctor, who gave me Xanax for anxiety. That helped for a awhile, but it didn't address the underlying reason of why I couldn't sleep: I was unhappy. The insomnia only further contributed to my feelings of isolation while at college. I was dealing with something that none of my friends ever even <em>thought</em> about, and thus I felt embarassed by it, and retreated into myself even more. I felt so very different than everyone else, and when I would talk about it with my parents they were dismissive about the issue, probably because I never fully communicated to them how scared and lost I felt inside. The truth is, I never wanted them to worry, and so I would pretend to be happy and having a simply grrrrreat! time at college.<br />
<br />
I would wander down the halls of my dormitory at night, and often I would hear girls' moans coming out of various rooms, as girls would randomly hook up with other girls in the dorm on a nightly basis. Again, this only served to make me feel more alone and isolated, especially since at the time I was too prudish to even consider hooking up with another girl. But it sure seemed like everybody had somebody...everybody except me, that is. Looking back, I can see now that I was simply stuck emotionally. I was feeling alone and unhappy, and, what's worse, sorry for myself. I needed somebody to shake me awake and help me get out of this godawful depressing rut. My parents were no help, as I'd been pretty much lying to them, and there were no teachers to speak of that I really connected with. In fact, most of my teachers were such die-hard feminists -- you know, the sack dress, frizzy hair, no makeup kinds -- that the rebellious part of me took to wearing tons of makeup and particularly high heels when I would go to their classes, simply for the shock value of it, and also probably to spite them, as I partially blamed them and their rigidity for my own feelings of isolation and differentiation.<br />
<br />
I had a couple of good girlfriends while at Scripps, although I haven't really stayed in touch with them, and a few boyfriends from the neighboring colleges, but none of them very serious. Excluding my junior year in Italy, after my four years there I literally wiped my hands of the place, and just felt so, so happy to finally be free. I immediately went to work in public relations, and was a changed person the moment I got on my own. I was doing what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it, and surrounding myself with people I enjoyed being around. It was like someone had flicked on a switch inside of me, and I couldn't have been happier.<br />
<br />
It is strange and surreal to think about my experience at Scripps, almost as if it had been a fitful dream, and how very different it was from other peoples' college encounters. Most people I know simply loved this period of time in their lives. I used to feel envious of that fact, and wished that I could have had a similar experience, but I now realize that if I hadn't undergone all that I did, I would be a totally different person than I am today. I know that I am particularly sensitive and evaluative as a result of what I have felt and seen, and so I do feel grateful for what I learned at Scripps, which is to listen to my gut, to communicate, and to never feel ashamed for feeling different from anyone else. In fact, being unique is now one of the things I enjoy and pride most about myself and who I am.<br />
<br />
And I still do have trouble sleeping sometimes, but who doesn't? We live in a fast-paced world of technology and stresses and responsibilities, and if we weren't affected by those things, then we wouldn't be human. I simply feel thankful that I can utilize all that I have learned about myself in writing this blog, and continue to grow in a way that works for me.<br />
<br />
So that's it. I think now you all pretty much know most of what there is to know about my past and my accompanying mulititudes of mistakes and learning curves. Although I can guarantee I'll create plenty more mistakes and plenty more learning curves, and, that being said, thank <em>God</em>, because isn't that what makes life interesting anyhow?Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1449548263335557594.post-88115613686041326842011-05-16T13:50:00.000-05:002011-05-16T13:50:34.096-05:00Poems VII<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
<br />
<strong>No Wonder We Talk of the Weather</strong></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Nebulous minds, dimly beget,<br />
fuzzy with worship and tourniquets,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">missing rings, and empty nests; </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">darkening mists in spidery webs.<br />
Clouds grow weary and settle down our heads.</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Rain-soaked eyes and splattered brows,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">furrowed in thought of thunderous blows.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Lightening bolts have come and gone;</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">blindness weeps from corners still,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">flooding dark our shut tight windowsills.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Sunshiny lips parted and cracked,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">exposing our motives with calico breath.<br />
Forces asunder parcel our warmth,<br />
and also abscond, as sometimes suns should;<br />
witnessing aeons of orangey folds at end.<br />
<br />
And still amiss, our snow shod hearts,<br />
churlish in flurries of deepening drifts.<br />
Beautiful fallings hide only the forts<br />
we have frozen in fear of showing our parts,<br />
now melted forgetful into apathy ice.<br />
<br />
Reflections of selves distilling our breath,<br />
evaporations weakened and gone.<br />
Once and forever, unchanging and still --<br />
It's no wonder we talk of the weather.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>The Eyes I Know</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
1. Green <br />
earth and soil,<br />
fermented with doubts,<br />
dampening, grounding eternal.<br />
The spans of your leaves<br />
leave me darkening, quickening,<br />
as you give me my breath<br />
and you take it away.<br />
You suffocate me<br />
with your viridian triangles,<br />
trapping and shining in slaps.<br />
You're impossibly strong, <br />
you star-spangled coward --<br />
I hate you, I love you.<br />
I need you.<br />
<br />
2. Blue <br />
mysteries of tapestries <br />
lapis lazuli;<br />
hot threaded weavings of lies.<br />
Gunmetal anguish of<br />
rejection and secrets,<br />
you are slung like a sword,<br />
you deceive like a river --<br />
yet I know your core. <br />
You blanket my sand, <br />
you jewel my soft palm;<br />
I hate the hard edges<br />
but I love what's inside.<br />
You're my essence of malleable,<br />
ludicrous truth.<br />
<br />
3. Brown<br />
gaping pools<br />
of salt and tears love;<br />
your Neptunian empire <br />
releases my soul.<br />
You make me forget<br />
myself and my demons,<br />
my mistrust and fear --<br />
the fraught exoskeleton<br />
always I bear. <br />
You unfragment me,<br />
though you're fragile as time.<br />
I'm lost in the black <br />
of your ancient and luminous,<br />
see-through, watery eyes.<br />
<br />
4. Mottled <br />
are mine,<br />
bluish and greenish<br />
and black at the center,<br />
and they say in a language <br />
as foreign as Latin:<br />
that I only want<br />
a promise of more and<br />
to promise you more --<br />
for I can show all.<br />
I carry this world<br />
in my feeling-full eyes,<br />
and they are as clear and as honest <br />
as sky.</div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1449548263335557594.post-63885692140301816952011-05-05T18:35:00.000-05:002011-05-13T12:40:42.653-05:00Little Italy, part 2 <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv5Kb-80yd-qYQVCzSelu-3Of_0c9IiyW0HcCi1pKLOylyIuK4bMDym2Hkt6kdxwW9SfgxsaCB1NocsihsKB9Qr0Lp0bMs05Koz-yqnRuZqORYi4A6pL-VA6WKJjkXjbCShpaI1GgvvfQZ/s1600/michelangelo-sculptures-13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="296px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv5Kb-80yd-qYQVCzSelu-3Of_0c9IiyW0HcCi1pKLOylyIuK4bMDym2Hkt6kdxwW9SfgxsaCB1NocsihsKB9Qr0Lp0bMs05Koz-yqnRuZqORYi4A6pL-VA6WKJjkXjbCShpaI1GgvvfQZ/s320/michelangelo-sculptures-13.jpg" width="320px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Michelangelo's <em>David</em> --<br />
I think getting to see this sculpture in person might have <br />
been the <em>real</em> reason I chose to study in Florence.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
OK, so I've given you all a peek into my domestic life while living in Italy, but what I haven't done is tell you what I did <em>outside</em> of the home. In reality, much of it is a blur, simply because I was having so many adventures all at once, and these experiences have somewhat melded together. So, I sort of remember that year like one of those movies that takes place over the course of one debaucherous night -- a la "The Hangover." Ummmm...well, no. Not at <em>all</em> like "The Hangover." My life in Florence probably couldn't have been LESS<em> </em>like that movie, except for, maybe, that a lot of the celebratory details have become quite muddled, but here are the exploits I do remember:<br />
<br />
Every night after classes and dinner with our families, the students from our program would meet up at various bars around the city. Nine out of ten times, the bar would be called "Jolly Cafe," as these Americanized hangouts were all over town (although I could never quite get past the ridiculous name). Anyway, I'd get a call -- with my eager and nosy Italian sisters listening in behind the door -- "Hey, Sarah. Meet me in 10 at the Jolly Cafe." My response: "Which Jolly Cafe?" "You know, the one by the Duomo." I would inevitably go to the wrong one, get lost, get solicited by swarthy Italian hooligans (which was always a little bit thrilling, to be honest), and arrive a full 45 minutes late. One particularly raucous night, a bunch of us met up at the J.C., and, as it was overcrowded inside, we were all hanging out on the street in front. I'm on a tear, being my absolute silliest and loudest, and probably most annoying ever (well, probably not <em>ever</em>, as I can be that way quite often). All of a sudden, I feel a freezing downpour of water envelop me, drenching my hair, my clothes, and -- oh my God -- my <em>shoes</em>. But wait a minute, this water <em>smells</em>. And wait another minute, I am the ONLY ONE soaked. I look up, and the woman who lives above that unique Jolly Cafe is leaning out of her window smiling like the cat that ate the canary, and waggling her finger at me and my friends, who are by now laughing hysterically at my misfortune. What the...? Turns out, the precious 75-year-old crone would save up her old bathwater all month (and this is not <em>nearly</em> as much water as you would think, but <em>plenty</em>, trust me), and randomly pour it out her window on the unsuspecting American students who were keeping her up all night with their drunken antics. And that evening, I was the lucky victim! You would think I would have immediately rushed home and showered, but no. I was having waaaaay too much fun to stop partying, and continued 'till dawn -- soaking and stinky, but happy.<br />
<br />
Another time, my girlfriends and I took the train to Viareggio, which is a small city on the Tyrrhenian Sea, to celebrate Carnevale (similar to our Mardi Gras). We proceeded to get completely bombed with everyone else in town, and at sunset we wobbled down to the main street, where the big parade, known as Passeggiata a Mare, was taking place. Suddenly, we scream in shock! These are not like any ordinary floats we have ever seen before: these are GIANT (the size of small houses) fluorescent papier mache sculptures...and they're not only incredibly disturbing, they're also pornographic! I, naturally, vomit on the spot. At the time I thought it was from the wine, but, in hindsight, it was probably from the effect of the hallucinatory floats upon my prissy eyeballs. Twenty minutes and a second wind later, I'm up on one of the floats kissing an Italian teenage boy, who, a minute before, had been lip syncing to Madonna's "Material Girl." <em>Glurg.</em> The next day we all took a ferry to the island of Elba, and spent the remainder of the weekend sitting on the beach, trying to recover from the gluttonous depravity of Carnevale. Thankfully, our bodies did eventually recover, although our pride was most definitely lost forever.<br />
<br />
A couple of weeks after Carnevale, my mom and my aunt came to Florence to pick me up and take me skiing with them in Switzerland. We took a train to the city of Gstaad, which is so pristine and beautiful that it almost seems as if it's not real -- think <em>Sound of Music</em>. First things first, we inform our hotel what ski level we are: my mom and aunt smartly say "beginner," while cocky me swaggers in with "intermediate." Okay, I AM intermediate in the United States, but skiing in Switzerland is a different story. My ski group and I take a 30 minute (!) chair lift to the top of one the mountains, get off, and suddenly -- I'm alone. They have all zipped off ahead of me, and I'm still standing there, lost and bewildered. It's snowing, so I can't see anything, and when I finally figure out which way is down, I realize the hill is so steep and jagged, that I'm not sure I can even make it to the bottom. My eyes well up in tears of panic, but I know I don't have a choice. I set my skiis into snowplow position and wind my way, slowly, backbreakingly, down.<br />
<br />
A full excruciating hour later I finally reach the bottom -- my butt has, by now, completely seized up in spasms. Fortunately, I run into my mom and my aunt, and I'm so relieved I actually do cry. They INSIST I come with their group, and from that point forward we have a fabulous time. Our guide's name is Hans Peter (so cute!), and he is the perfect speed for us, which is slow to non-existent. Every day during that week we ski a bit in the morning, then around 1:00 stop for a two-hour lunch. These lunches consist of little bread cubes that we dip in cheese fondue, and wine, which is supposed to help you digest the fondue. At the end of the two-hour meal, we are so full and tipsy, that we just barely make it down the mountain for one laaaaast run, and then go back to our hotel room and collapse on our beds, happy.<br />
<br />
My time in Italy was a magical year for me in every way shape and form, and I feel so, so grateful that I was fortunate enough to experience it. There were countless wonderful components to my life there: from cooking classes in the hills of Tuscany, to some of the most romantic dates of my life (sneaking into the Boboli Gardens at midnight was a definite highlight), to eating impossibly delicious gelato each and every day (which, amazingly, never got old, but, not so amazingly, <em>did</em> contribute to the 15 pounds I gained while living there), to the Duomo, the Ponte Vecchio, the Uffizi, and every other gorgeous antiquity there. There really is nothing quite like it -- that I know of anyway. So thank you, Florence, again and again. You changed me forever.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, is anyone else craving spaghetti?Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13124948219796442608noreply@blogger.com3