Dreams, Dad and Kathy Ireland

When I was struggling to find a full-time job after college, 90% of my complaints were met with: "Well did you contact Kathy Ireland yet?"

If this seems odd its because it is.

I didn't always know much about Kathy Ireland other than she used to be a model and was once Peter Griffin's cardboard cutout girlfriend. But all that changed after an ordinary night created what I'd like to call my dad's "mild obsession" with Kathy Ireland.

My dad often requested that his daughters "come see something," "come listen to this" or "turn on channel" so and so. These requests were always urgent no matter if what followed was a poorly-made car commercial he thought was funny or a serious remake of a Nine in Nails song by Johnny Cash (which we were coerced into watching one Christmas). But that was dad, always serving his sense of humor and intellect in urgent, tiny doses -- garnering at one time both eye rolls and love from his daughters.

This night I was called to turn on CNN to watch a special on Kathy Ireland. The show focused on how she turned her celebrity status and personal values into several successful businesses, including everything from Kathy Ireland area rugs to wigs and a line of Goldtoe socks.

Since watching that interview, my dad thought it would be a great idea for me to write a letter to Kathy Ireland detailing why I should work for her company.  This now explains why "Did you contact Kathy Ireland yet?" became a common phrase at dinnertime. 

True to character, my dad never once thought writing a letter to a famous business owner would be a waste of time, crazy or pointless -- the very words I used to describe why I would not be contacting her.

It would later become a reoccurring family joke that most of my problems were a result of never writing a letter to Kathy Ireland.

So when I logged onto Twitter the other day and saw a promoted tweet from American Family Insurance detailing a chance to win money towards pursuing your dreams and be personally mentored by Kathy Ireland, I took it as a small sign from heaven. 

Please click here to vote for my dream and let my dad know he won the Kathy Ireland battle.

Black Diamonds

Before it was known as "The Saturday Before" it was just a Saturday, known as nothing but a compilation of sunny hours to start off the weekend.

I had promised to go swimming at a friends house a few hours before the usual call of "Come outside I want to show you something," kept me home a few hours more. Following as one always did unless feeling daring or disrespectful, I found my way behind the large green trees purposely planted to shield our houses from the wind's harsh dusting of farmland residue.

On the other side of these trees were scattered blackberry bushes still rooted in the same sandy soil they were planted in twenty-something years ago. The blackberries -- a by-product of one man's appreciation for nature -- were now a pathway for others to gain a similar admiration, and also a pathway to him. How weird it was, I thought, to be picking blackberries from the same plants my great uncle had planted long before I was born. A bittersweet taste swished in my mouth and a bittersweet feeling crept through my body as I wondered all the ways those in heaven are still with us on Earth.

My dad walked further down the dirt path, called out to me during this reflection, and motioned me towards the patches of corn his farmer friend had recently planted in the distance.

And soon that Saturday before became the Sunday of. The day I would remember the blackberry bushes and look around in the distance to once again wonder the connection between that of Earth and of heaven. The peaceful feeling I would once again receive knowing that things so deeply rooted would always remain.

How low can you go?

Doing the "Limbo Rock" is a bit fun and a bit terrorizing. When you can maneuver your way under the stick and show off your ability to be the most bendable of the bunch, it's great fun. When you're the uncoordinated and inflexible kid with really tall parents, it ends in embarrassment and possibly a broken wrist.

I was lucky enough to be the short and bendable type back when doing the limbo really meant something at fourth grade birthday parties. It felt glorious to adapt to each new stick-y circumstance with such ease.

I continued to maneuver my way under life's most memorable limbo sticks with adaptivity. I entered kindergarten with little more than my purple Beauty and the Beast backpack, matching vinyl lunchbox, and a small fear of "Teacher." I had graduated on from 8th grade into high school, applying too much black eye liner that to my luck was perfect for my new surroundings. And most recently, I had moved away and graduated from college with good grades and a good attitude.

But now that I am approaching the limbo stick that's stopping me from fully entering adulthood, I find myself falling backwards, unable to "limbo lowa now."

The day I graduated college I was excited to come home. I had been away, met new people, taken classes on everything from Descartes to Da Vinci, and felt like I had really "grown up". Returning home felt like a comforting and congratulating hug that would help ease the pain of job hunting.

I figured I would have a little more time, maybe a month or two, before I was whisked away to the job I had always dreamed of in New York City. The one that would give me enough funds to cover rent in a spacious loft downtown, a career-girl wardrobe, and a few nights out on the town.

It's been ten months since graduation, and although I'd say we did a great job at redecorating, the room I share with my sister is a far cry from the loft I was imagining.

Hadn’t I "grown up"? Didn’t a degree from college mean I had reached a degree of adulthood? I learned to cook my own dinner, schedule my own appointments, and leave a room without explaining where I was going. I was qualified to have a full-time job, although some of my interviewers thought otherwise, move out, and continue the independent lifestyle I had started in college. But the more I stayed home, the more I felt like I was falling on my back unable to pass under the bar to adulthood.

During this time waiting in limbo, I began to carry a weight of expectations around with me wherever I went. I couldn't keep up with the ones I had set out for myself, and I couldn't break through the ones my family and friends had already set in their minds.

With little arm muscle, it took a while for me to build up the strength to toss this dumbbell of expectations aside and find my way under that darn limbo stick.

Watching an episode of Oprah's Master Class this weekend on Maya Angelou was like a trip to the gym. She said something that changed my perspective of my whole situation. She said "love doesn't hold, it liberates; to hold is just ego."

Hammonton in particular seems to have a tight hold on all if its residents. Family and friends are just smaller counterparts of this hold. For so long I thought I had to leave in order to grow and be who I really am. But I realize now it only had a tight grasp because I let it. I was the only one holding myself back from being and doing what I want. It is hard to break through others', not to mention your own, expectations of who you are. But even though it's hard, it is possible.

And maybe I was holding Hammonton, my family, and my friends to expectations they didn't really meet. Maybe I was doing the same underestimating and assuming about them that I had not wanted them to do about me. Maybe I hadn't loved them enough to let them show me who they really are either.

When I looked at it that way I began to appreciate this state of lying on my back in limbo a little more. Maybe I wasn't meant to pass under the limbo stick just yet.  Maybe to pass under this stick into adulthood I have to learn that escaping and running around the bar does not really put you on the other side. Maybe growing as an adult, and as a human being, requires you to stay and realize there is still a lot to learn about the people, and places, you thought you already knew (including yourself).

My Way

"I've lived a life that's full. I've traveled each and every highway. But, more much more than this, I did it my way. "

They are quite possibly Frank Sinatra's most famous lyrics, and part of my dad's morbid request for his future headstone inscription— the words of "My Way" always seemed a little arrogant to me. Not everyone gets it to do it their way Mr. Sinatra. And although my dad seems to think he has it his way in our household, he never can have full control living with four women and a female dog.

But as I get older I think I've come to understand what ol' blue eyes was really bragging about. Through recent personal developments (i.e. the spare time between writing cover letters and checking Facebook), I've come to realize how incredibly important, and not always selfish, it is to do things your way.

Doing things your way doesn't necessarily mean being selfish—it means owning who you are in the truest sense and being completely honest and genuine in your actions. And anyone, not just those with a celebrity lifestyle like Frank Sinatra, is capable of that.

"What is a man? What has he got? If not himself, than he has naught."

Because, really, what are you if not yourself? Being who you truly are and living accordingly not only requires you to do the things you truly know are right for you, but it also requires you to own up to your mistakes.

"There are times, I'm sure you knew, when I bit off more than I could chew. But through it all, when there was doubt, I ate it up and spit it out. I faced it all and I stood tall and did it my way."

Imagine if we could cut through the b.s. that infliltrates our daily activities and did what our true selves really desired? I've always been a believer that everyone's true self has good intentions, which makes this concept even more enticing.

It seems the public is enticed by this idea as well since it has been reflected in everything from shows like Jersey Shore, which has exposed us to the honest, sometimes vile, activities of actual 20-(and for The Situation 30-) somethings, to technology like Facebook, which has helped to tear down the walls between us and our "friends,"

Although I don't think Jersey Shore reflects the truest selves of its cast, and I realize these mediums leave room for inauthenticity just like anything else, I do think they have helped lay the foundation for, and show a collective public desire for, transparency and honesty.

It's as if we are asking for, and are starting to create, a world where honesty is cherished over secrecy. Where the examination of actions is no longer saved for the confessional booth or for deathbeds, but in our lives every single day. Where we can admit to our mistakes and insecurities to help others dealing with the same issues. Where we can all agree that the truth does indeed set you free.

Although I am not certain that 100% honesty is always the best policy or zero privacy is a good thing, I do think being honest with yourself opens the doors for you to connect with others, which in turn helps to spread a sense of community, friendship, and love.

Oprah's initials serendipitously help to spell out the name of her new network OWN—a word and idea she embraces as part of her life's mission. On the network's show Master Class both Oprah and the featured guest Diane Sawyer praised the importance of being their true selves and surrounding themselves with people that continually bring out who they are in the truest sense.

Diane, who has helped expose and resolve the plights of many through her investigative journalism, and Oprah who has been exceedingly generous with her sharing of self and her assets, both attribute their success for helping others to this very quality of authenticity.

Who knew doing it your way could actually help so many others?

Despite my previous assumptions, I now know why my dad aspires to have this written on his headstone, and I hope one day I too will look back and say: "Yes, it was my way."

Look how they shine for you

It dictates our work schedules, creeps through our relationships, and even shows up in the same ol' turkey and cheese sandwich we pack for lunch.

It is Routine.

Most times we don't even realize it's there. But as soon as we do, sameness and all who it describes better run and hide.

Routine is a word we hate. I have always thought it to be synonymous with complacent and boring— words I would never want to describe me.

Routine = settling. Or so I thought.

When routine starts to turn me into a robot, I rebel. Everything around me starts to feel like a barrier between who I am and who I want to be — my job, my living circumstances, my bank account, and even my loved ones. Unfortunately, I often overlook the most dangerous barrier—me.

I'm learning to recognize the fine line between settling and being appreciative for what you have. It seems the same drive that helps me move forward can also detour me from recognizing what I need to bring with me into the future.

When I was younger I used to look outside the large window in my living room and stare at the stars—Kelly Clarkson "Break Away" style. Sometimes in the summer I would even venture outside to the swing by my pond, blaring burned cds from my discman (the preipodic age) and stare up .

Back then I thought big things—somehow swinging on that swing, staring at the stars gave me the confidence that I would someday change that big world out there. I wasn't sure how, but I was pretty confident it would happen.

I don't do this much anymore. In fact I have to admit that the fear of abduction, thanks to countless E! specials, has made me scared to step foot outside my house when everyone else is asleep. But this fear of intruders is not the only reason why.

Sometimes when I see a really starry night I get a little sad inside. What was once my favorite pastime has now become a stark reminder of all I haven't accomplished.

It seems there is little room between after work and 11PM to change the world.

But then there are other times when I refuse to believe that those nights I spent staring at the stars got me nowhere, except being able to locate the big dipper almost everywhere I go.

Yup, every once in a while there are extremely clear skies like tonight when I look up and remember who I used to be, who I want to be, and who I really am — a really lucky human being, routines and all.

That's Life

Two songs remind me of my teenage years and neither are from the twenty-first century.

I can remember on numerous occasions when—as my mom put it—"my attitude problem" had hit an all time high. My dad would walk into my room and say "come into the garage I want you to listen to something." I knew what would be waiting for me in this garage—laughter, mockery, the occasional "I really want you to listen to this part"—and yet, I still joined him every time.

And there he would place one of his outdated cassettes in his large "record player" that did not play records, and stream one of these two songs: "That's Life" by Frank Sinatra or "Get Over It" by the Eagles. This was my dad's idea of comforting me when I was sad or angry or full of angsty attitude. And somehow the lyrics demanding me to get over myself were comforting... in the most non-comforting sort of way.

Although I would never admit it then, (hard-headed—another quality I picked up from my father) I always realized he was right. Whatever I was going through was not the end of the world. My dad knew it wasn't, and deep down so did I.

I have to thank him for not letting me give into those feelings of self-pity. Because of him I am able to say "get over yourself" to myself. He taught me that things happen in life whether we like or not—if it is something I can change then stop complaining and do something about it, and if it's something I can't change, then hey, that's life.

Now when I get caught up in situations that seem to consume my life, I hear those songs playing in my head and I laugh. I can't help but think, just get over it.

The other day I was discussing this with my Grandma and she told me that as much as she loves seeing the opportunities I have, she also feels bad for my generation because we seem to have so much more stuff to worry about. As a young woman I worry about which path I should take in my life; as a young woman, she worried about being able to eat.

Our lives have become much more complicated since the time my Grandma grew up, for better and for worse. Sometimes it seems like everything around us is moving so fast and we are not equipped to catch up and that leads to worrying.

But do we really need to worry about all this stuff? Why do we try to do everything so fast when it doesn't make us any happier than if we were to take things slow?

We comfort ourselves with things and to-do lists, and the more we do, the further we get from facing the truth of what life really is—a complete mystery to everyone—and that seems to transcend every time period.

Weirdness that shouldn't be weird

Exhibit A: "Automobile Discoveries"
Gaga is on, mouth is moving, wind is blowing, speed is picking up. Then suddenly, a light turns red and there you are, windows down, within five feet of the car in the other lane, also with its windows down. Weirdness ensues.

Exhibit B: "Treno Discoveries"
As I was trying to concentrate on the Beyonce themed word search in my lap, a woman came and sat next to me, opened her laptop and began typing furiously. I imagined what it would be like to be that busy on a 26 minute morning commute, to not even have some spare time to dabble in crosswords or a morning paper. As this woman typed away I wondered how weird it was that we didn't even make eye contact. I also wondered why she chose to sit next to me rather than her many other potential train ride companions.

Exhibit C: "College Discoveries"
Going to a small school "where everybody knows your name" is nice. Some people always say hi. Some people don't. I often offered my "do I smile do I not smile" smile to most people that walked by. It was the kinda place where you knew everybody but didn't really know everybody. I always liked when people said hi to me. Made me wish I was the kinda person that said hi to everyone without a care in the world too. Why did that seem weird to do?

Exhibit D: "Mi Amica Discoveries"
My friend Kelly boards a bus in Philadelphia as part of her daily work routine. She approaches the aisle and sits by a woman occupying one of the two seats. Kelly smiles. She receives no expression from the woman in return.

Exhibit E: "Bicicletta Discoveries" (and the final exhibit I promise)
Riding through the streets of what I always believed (and in my heart still do) is a town filled with happy people waiting to give you a smile and offer you macaronis, I received a dirty look from a man moving his garbage can from one end of his driveway to the other. I had the feeling bicycling through your hometown was now the equivalent to robbing a bank.

These are all examples of what I like to classify as "weirdness that shouldn't be weird."

What made us this way anyways? Not all Americans, but many, are so removed from one another that even a smile is weird. How did hi become so taboo?

I could probably turn this into an entire thesis if I ever want to attend grad school.

No wonder why many Americans are so unhappy. It's not the economy, it's humans.

Despite the fact that we are at many times, like on the bus or the train, "all up in each other's businesses," a smile seems to close for comfort for many Americans.

Too much distance makes it easier for people to dislike one another, to talk about one another, to hurt one another. We create this distance yet suffer from it at the same time.

Whenever I start to slip into the "I'm Sara and I'm shy" mode and am unsure whether I should say hi to people I don't really know, I try to remind myself we're all the friggin same (that Jersey "friggin" can be really convincing).

Thinking of all this reminded me of something I read the other day by Frances Mayes in her book, Everyday in Tuscany. She shares a story of how she was on a bus all alone and an older woman came on and decided to sit right next to her when she could have sat in any of the other empty seats. She tells this to her Italian neighbor and friend, to which her Italian neighbor and friend replies, "Why not?"

Why not?