It’s better than a mass e-mail

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

6. Howie’s an idiot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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