Monthly Archives: February 2011

This is why I need a handler

Plaid shoes

Stripey t-shirt

Everyone needs an orange sport watch, right?

Big Ol' Blues

Clearly, when the creative synapses start firing I get REAL creative with the wardrobe.

What you are not seeing: my hair. It really is the crowning achievement to this ensemble, but you’ll just have to use your imagination.


Facebook: An unlikely fire under my ass


Several things happen to me a couple of times a year. It used to be more like once every year or so. With the advent of Facebook and, well, aging, I find that I hit this pothole more frequently.  Everyone—well, everyone I know, anyway, knows this pothole. It’s the Oh-my-God-what-the-hell-am-I-doing pothole.

Get ready for seriously egotistical Sarah, alright? In a long list of neuroses, this is a big one.

I just watched The Social Network for the first time while buried up to my eyeballs in snow a few weeks ago. Generally, I thought it was just sort of—meh.  I found myself on Facebook while watching the movie, which is sort of ironic. Brian managed to completely file our taxes while watching it, if that tells you anything. However, to its credit, I did ponder for a moment of two how different our lives have become, namely in terms of romantic relationships. I mean, driving by your ex-boyfriend’s house four times after you’ve had a few beers at happy hour (this is NOT me endorsing having a few and driving) has become a completely ineffectual method of stalking. The drive-by method simply does not provide the same information than a little bit of Facebook surfing does.

And yet, when you get old and married and boring, Facebook stalking your exes just is far less entertaining. It is, I’ve found, replaced by the random stalking of old high school and college friends. This is no less, um, weird. I mean, don’t we all have a little bit of curiosity about where our friends are now? What they’re doing? Where they’ve been, what they’ve done in the oh, um, ten or fifteen years since we last saw them?

That’s not the unhealthy part.

The unhealthy part is when we (read: me) suddenly wonder what the hell I was doing while my friends have traveled the world, fought in wars, written amazing pieces, acted amazing works, discovered cures to cancer, yadda, yadda.  What was I doing?

Apparently I was going to happy hour and doing drive-bys.

Seriously, though. I was once told that I wasn’t reflexive enough. That maybe I should take more time to think about what I’m doing rather than just doing.  As much as that comment rankled me, I have taken it to heart. In my vast free time these days, I think an awful lot about where I’ve been, what I’ve accomplished, what I’ve seen and where I’d like to go.

I’m always ready for a new adventure. I am so ready I can taste it. And now I have a fire under my ass again to do something, something that matters. I want to do something that makes a dent, and something that those that come after me can say, hey, how cool is it that she did this?

And so I find myself making big plans. Plans that are so big, sometimes Brian looks tired. Sometimes I think it’s tired of me talking, but no, I think it’s really tired in anticipation of what is to come.

He knew what he was getting into when he married me…a stir-crazy rabble rouser with a lot of words.

Also: I travel the world via my friend’s photos. I’m itching to do some of my own again.

Stay tuned. It’s coming.



I quit you.

And this relationship has come to an end

Hey, David Foster Wallace. I quit you. I have quit you before, several times. I fell in like with your essays back when I was young and impressionable. And while I do not discredit the impressions of youth, I have since found you to be pretentious, wordy (an understatement) and, frankly, overrated.  But this is it, this time it is for real. Move on, you and I WILL NEVER BE.

Recently, I gave you a second chance at the recommendation of friends who thought the world of you. I thought, surely, I must have seen something in you all those years ago. And I did, you are funny, witty even, you still prove to be far too wordy for my taste, but ultimately, even this I find sort of endearing. I dove hesitantly into your Infinite Jest, I tried to let you swallow me, envelope me in some mesmerizing prosaic world of genius and wonder. I was skeptical.

I struggled. I laughed sometimes, despite my cynicism. I was, like so many who have come before me, wooed by the vocabulary, the sentence structures, the paragraphs that became heady, verbose pages. I was, despite myself, swept away on occasion.

And yet, I struggled.

My friends told me, just wait. Just hang in there, get over the hump, the magic will happen.

So I waited.  I read. I plodded. I worked at it like it was my job.

And then I found my eyes straying to the end table, stacked with books waiting for me to crack their spines. I drove by the library, doing my best to avert my eyes. While taking long baths, I read…others.

Here’s the thing, DFW. I respect what you tried to do, really I do. Your talent is unmistakeable, you have something, for someone out there. But that someone, truly, is not me. And I am tired of pretending to be into you, when really, I am fondling the cover of Nicholson Baker or, heaven forbid, John Irving, longingly.

And so, it is time, it’s time after months of pussyfooting around the issue.

You’re a nice guy. You wrote some essays that I love, and will quote until the end of my days. And I am sure that someone else will make you a lot happier than me.

No, really. This is it.  I quit.  You will grace many bookshelves, you will be dragged around many a college campus in tattered backpacks of self-important liberal arts majors. And you will love it.

And I’ll settle in to the rest of my winter reading, and I will live knowing I did not finish the 990 pages that is your Infinite Jest. Life is too short to fake it.