Let's Party Like it's Geocities 1999

Why? Because this strange child is my heart.

 I'm just a writer.

I'm not doing this to create a brand for myself, not that there's anything wrong with that. I named my blog Cincy Sarah because it's just kind of catchy and is pretty on-the-nose. I'm Sarah and I'm from Cincinnati. No-brainer.

But every now and then, I get weird pressure from people I know in the blogging community, as it were, to monetize my blog or finish up designing my own site (turns out I really and truly detest that kind of thing), or to organize blog posts into an ebook that I would then sell on my blog that already contains all those posts... and I'm just not into it. I kind of envy the very talented people who have managed to create gorgeous, information-packed websites that draw visitors from all over the world. I'm just downright jealous when they amass enough readers to get free shit from companies just for mentioning them "casually" here and there. That's pretty sweet! I love that entrepreneurial spirit.

However.

That's just not me. I thought it might be, but it's just not. I don't have a particular agenda to promote, though I don't mind holding you hostage now and again to rant about something important (THINK BEFORE YOU PINK, PEOPLE). I like to write things that I hope people can relate to. I try to strike a chord now and again. I'm ever aware that I'm just another anonymous voice on the internet and it's totally understandable that you, the average internet person, doesn't necessarily care about me, in particular. I'm comfortable with that and the feeling is probably mutual. We both know what this is.

I'm also not interested in joining one of these massive rings where everybody blindly clicks on everyone else's blogs and leaves meaningless comments so that everybody gets lots of hits in some kind of modern day chain letter, Google-tricking waste of time.  That feels icky to me.

So I'm just going to continue writing whatever the hell I feel like writing here. And someday, I hope I can relate some exciting news about how someone is paying me actual money for writing things I love to write about. But it won't be Google Adsense. When I point you to Amazon and ask you to pretty please buy my book, I hope you'll want to do that because it sounds interesting and you'd like to support me because you're cool like that.

Now, how about you? What are you up to? I'd love to use my small internet voice to help get the word out about cool things you're doing, too. My next post will be pure promotion of some internet up-and-comers I'm excited about. If you're doing something from the heart and you'd like me to help spread the word, I'm happy to do that. No link exchanging required.

Let's just be real together, like it's Geocities 1999.

Wordy Wednesday

Marilyn Crook/Comedy Central press gallery

Stephen Colbert on grief: “The interesting thing about grief, I think, is that it is its own size. It is not the size of you. It is its own size. And grief comes to you. You know what I mean? I’ve always liked that phrase ‘He was visited by grief,’ because that’s really what it is. Grief is its own thing. It’s not like it’s in me and I’m going to deal with it. It’s a thing, and you have to be OK with its presence. If you try to ignore it, it will be like a wolf at your door.”

I found out recently that the great comedian and performer Stephen Colbert suffered an enormous loss when he was young - his dad and two of his brothers were all killed in a small plane crash when he was 10. It's one of those heart-wrenching scenarios too difficult to contemplate. Yet, here he is, decades later, proof that life is ever persistent.

His take on living with grief really struck me. I've never looked at grief through this lens, but I think he's on to something here. Maybe grief isn't something to "get through" and "move past" as much as it is something you have to learn to live alongside. I think we sometimes beat ourselves up for not breaking free, fast enough, from the losses that will dog all of us at various times. After a painful experience, surely it's possible to both heal and also move to a place of accepting grief as a natural component of life. Physiologically, even, there's got to be something important about grieving, since it's such a base, universal experience. When we're "visited" by grief, we'd probably do better to allow it in for a cup of coffee whiskey than to pretend it's probably just that really nice guy in the suit from the Church of Latter Day Saints out there on the doorstep, who won't be terribly surprised if we don't open the door. OK, maybe whiskey isn't the answer.

We tend to place way too many qualifiers and limitations on acceptable emotional responses, at any rate. We're too hard on ourselves when it comes to concepts (and once-pretend words) like "normalcy," and we're way too scared of that wolf at the door. Not only is there not a one-size-fits-all solution when it comes to dealing with mental stuff, there also isn't an ideal endgame for everyone.

What feels like coping to me might look like not enough progress, to you. But you can't fully understand the totality of another person's process. The older I get, the more I understand that I can't fully understand any other person. I can get close, maybe, in a few, select cases, but we don't get to climb inside other people's brains to check out the mechanics (at least not yet - Monsanto has something new coming out in our national corn supply, I've heard). All anybody can do is to keep moving forward. If we're honest and patient with ourselves, we figure out how to live with pain as we go. Sometimes we need a little help, and that's OK, too, so long as we're working toward fully turning toward the things that hurt.

The best I can do in the  meantime is accept you at face value, and encourage you to live an authentic life, even when that means your authenticity might make me uncomfortable at times. Something about authenticity brings out vulnerability in other people, according to all the Brené Brown I've read. And that can be scary, but also valuable. In fact, I'd say grief is one manifestation of vulnerability, which is key to fully embracing this imperfect life. It's all part of the sometimes frightening circle of Truth.

It's a lot to contemplate. I'm sure 8 out of 10 psychiatrists would tell me that my B.S. in political science and a lengthy interpretation of a Stephen Colbert quote doesn't actually qualify me to psychoanalyze all of society in broad, sweeping strokes. But 8 out of 10 psychiatrists would also have 8 different answers for why I cry every time I read Green Eggs and Ham to my sons. It's just what I do.

Knowing that I'll never have it all figured out is a gift that never stops giving me the future embarrassment I'll feel when I read this 3 years from now. Future Sarah, please don't be too hard on November 2012 Sarah. This was before that really huge thing happened with Oprah, when we all found out the true meaning of life. And to think we once thought it was free cars and Flamin' Hot Cheetos!

What really matters

Phew. It's been a whirlwind of multitudinous... stuff here. Sorry. After coming up with "multitudinous" (which I spelled correctly without the help of Mr. Sheldon T. Squiggly Line), my creativity well dried up like an egg white omelet at IHOP. Those people seriously do not understand omelets. Stick with the cakes.

So anyway. Stuff happened! Chief among the stuff was my best friend's wedding. Note I did not write My Best Friend's Wedding, which is an altogether different, and much more unfortunate situation.

No. My friend-who-was-never-going-to-get-remarried is now a Mrs-who-changed-her-mind, and I couldn't be more swollen with pride and happiness if I finally discovered that Mother of the Millenium Mellinnium Millennium (thanks, Sheldon) award in my mailbox.

It is not easy to take a leap into something scary after you've been through something awful. It would have been easier in 1100 ways for my friend to never take the chance again, and for a while I almost believed her when she said she never would. I had sat beside her during dark days, and she had stood by while I heaved with awkward, room-clearing sobs after my own first, young marriage dissolved. I was more than willing to be there again, but I was pretty sure I'd wind up in prison the next time someone hurt my schmoopie.

And then, one day, she practically floated into my house after their first date, all flushed, her eyes sparkling, the whole deal. The book was written long before she'd own up to it, but a true friend knows. I fretted at first. Cautioned. Worried. Rubbed my temples a lot. Planned for what I'd say if things went south and he wasn't as great as he seemed. It was going to be something like, "OK, here's your passport, a liter of rum, and a bag of toiletries. The plane lands in Jamaica at 8 a.m. and I have a cabana boy scheduled for 10. Godspeed."

Happily, very, very happily, the book just kept getting better and I didn't have to spend my life's savings on a ticket to a coconut island. He was "good people" - generous, fun, easy going, doting, protective, and above all and most important in my book, kind. Eventually I gave my nod, not that it would have mattered, but because I wanted it on record for later, in case they decided to write a will or something.

I was fortunate enough to stand close by and witness these two kind souls confirm and celebrate their commitment, to reaffirm what is important in this short life, to bravely and earnestly own everything that had come before, and welcome with open minds and hearts, whatever is yet to come.

I'm pretty bad at predictions (I'm still scraping that Ralph Nader for President sticker off my car), but in my estimation, two kind souls facing the world together, will result in good. I know these two will inspire more kindness along the way, because it's infectious. I know they will bring smiles and laughter and reminders about cherishing what is important in this life, to the people who surround them. It's what happens when true love is permitted to thrive, and I'm so proud that these two people have chosen that path.

Thank you for letting us be a part of your day, my friends.

Why I left Facebook and why nobody noticed

I'd been stewing about it for awhile, complaining about the various problems with the platform, feeling unsettled about a certain quality I couldn't quite name. I'd grown to mostly dislike my experience on Facebook, yet I was completely compelled to check it obsessively, day after day. I don't know if I truly started believing it was an affirmation of my worth when I posted something that got a reaction and some "likes", or if it was just plain addiction, filling a hole I didn't want to acknowledge. Partly, realizing that this teenage kid gets it, put some things in perspective. Whatever it was, it was a problem, and one day last week, I simply pulled the plug, without any announcement, without any last-second hesitations. It was just time.

Since then, two things have happened:

1. No one noticed. Not one of my near 200 "friends" seems to have noticed I'm gone, or if they do, it's clear that our interaction was limited to virtual reality because I haven't heard from them otherwise, despite our daily interactions on FB. No one has checked to see why I'm gone from there, though I suppose it's possible a few of them are wondering if I've just blocked them. I hope that's not the case. Honestly, there are only a few people I'd have tracked down, myself, if they'd disappeared, so I don't really have animosity about that. It's more of a matter-of-fact acknowledgement, kind of a "we both knew what this was" end to an affair.

2. On the positive side, and it's arguably even more important, I've realized how addicted I was to the whole scene, and my life has changed accordingly. I haven't had a lot of withdrawal, or even a moment of wanting to go back (at least not yet). Even a small distance has revealed how much time I was wasting, and almost all of it doing what Brene Brown calls the "hustle for worthiness". I am clearly naturally hilarious and personable (and sarcastic), but I started putting pressure on myself to be clever, always, which is exhausting. I also have this insatiable, annoying need to try to prevent my friends from experiencing discomfort, so I'd spend way too much time making sure to like their posts and at least be the one person who would comment on their dramatic status updates or intimately personal pictures or whatever, and I'm sure some of that was driven by an unconscious hope that they'd return the favor. My priorities are realigning now; the sun is coming back out. I haven't been born again as a sarcastic Martha Stewart, but I have reengaged with various parts of my life, and without the pressure to capture every moment digitally so that I might share with a wholly uninterested audience.

These aren't really surprising revelations, in retrospect. I knew I was spending too much time on Facebook, and I knew it wasn't a particularly authentic experience. I know many people are able to interact on Facebook without becoming addicted or trying to derive something from the experience that just isn't truly there. They were probably the people I tried to impress the most, as embarrassing as I find that to say. I don't blame Facebook per se, but rather Me on Facebook. It's just like any other addiction.

My addiction involved a fixation on my peer group, particularly other moms of small kids, and inevitably I began the endless, fruitless, unspoken contest to ascertain I was doing better than other moms, or at least, that I wasn't the worst. Oh, we'd all make sarcastic comments about how things weren't perfect in our homes, but there was always an undercurrent of competition between most of us. Not all, of course. There are fully secure parents out there who are admirable in their ability to truly not give a shit what you or I think about what they are doing, provided their kids are thriving. I thought I was one of them at one point, and I hope to feel that way again. Facebook, for me, flew in the face of this goal.

Another friend (a real, actual, in-the-flesh friend I see in person and don't have to coax out of hiding to hang out with me) told me she'd realized she had become fixated on documenting everything going on in her life through pictures, which she'd immediately put on Facebook. She's cut way back, too, and feels much better. To be sure, this is an internal pressure as much as it is an external one - I truly don't "blame" Facebook or the people on my friends list for my reaction to the whole scene. It's how I chose to interact with that scene, and my apparent inability to keep it from eating up too big a portion of my true self. My experience there has eroded a good deal of my sense of identity, as melodramatic as that might sound.

When I do have time to be online now, I'm mostly devoting it to my own website. I'm just about finished with the initial set up and already it feels great to have a place where I don't feel pressured beyond representing myself authentically. I'm not worried about traffic or an audience or comments on the blog portions of my site. I'm just excited that soon I'll have a place to share (and not share) what is true, and on my own terms. I'm unapologetically not Martha Stewart, but to me, this new venture is a Good Thing.

Update that will hopefully not completely wreck my earnest intentions here: I did reactivate on FB. But first, I got brutal and hacked away almost 200 friends from my list. Now I'm sitting around 65 (with about 30 active friends), and it's a completely new experience, and a pleasant one. There's so much less angst, for me. I feel a bit mean when I sometimes ignore requests from people, but only a little.