sarahcentric

“I’ve heard so much about Sarah and the Great Plumpy’nut saga! Can I start reading now, or is it going to be like freaking “Lost” ?” Part I is right here.

“Are you freaking kidding me? You didn’t hear Sarah already released Part II?! It will blow your mind!” Part II is right here.

The media frenzy surrounding today’s release of the conclusion to “Visions of Plumpy’nut Dance in my Head” has been overwhelming. All week long I’ve walked by cafes in the city selling tickets for “Plumpy’nut & Jelly Tea Parties” offering free Wi-Fi service on release day for fans who want to be together for the final installment. I’ve seen kids from age 9 to 999 wearing VOPDIMH fan gear like “Plumpy’nut Forever!”, “What the hell do you want, Plumpy’nut?!” and “I Hump Plumpy’nut! t-shirts. But it has be to my most passionate readers who have been waiting on line for 36 hours at their own computers to make certain they are the first ones in their home to know how it all ends that move me most… because I am so confused as to why they are waiting on line in their own homes…but whatevs! Here we are. All questions will be answered and Spielberg, you can finally get cracking on pre-production of the movie adaptations!

If you didn’t download one of the “Visions of Plumpy’nut Dance in My Head” Cheat Sheets that are all over the internet right now, allow me to refresh your memory. Also I can go ahead and address some of the nasty rumors I’ve seen on Access Hollywood.

-We find our heroine, Sarah Jackson, hungover on her living room couch watching a 60 Minutes segment about childhood malnutrition in Africa and a therapeutic food called plumpy’nut. Sarah becomes obsessed but not enough to do anything about it for at least six months. (Some fansites are working out a complicated timeline, starting with the premiere date of the 60 Minutes story and calculating dates based on how many pints of ice cream and Oreo Cakester purchases mentioned in this blog. I do NOT endorse this method since this infinite number can’t possibly be calculated. It’s kind of like Pi…or Pie, which is also very delicious.)

-When Sarah continues to ignore the nagging voice in her brain that yells “plumpy’nut” on and off for months, she is finally visited by The Head Legume himself. (Some fansites have suggested this meeting between Plumpy’nut and myself is a comic, fictional device meant to illustrate my decision to take action. This could not be further from the truth! Plumpy’nut is real and very adorable! I took this photo of Plumpy’nut on the subway platform when he was doing this hilarious dance. Look at everyone around him laughing…and oh, that sunset! Ladies, eat your heart out.)

-Sarah and Plumpy’nut agree to a three-point action plan in line with Sarah’s lifestyle and personal philosophy, hopeful it will provide more of this therapeutic food to the children who desperately need it.

1. Purchase one serving of plumpy’nut a week through the American-based group Project Peanut Butter.
2. Contact Project Peanut Butter directly and offer personal assistance.
3. Coordinate a Baked-Goods Buffet at Comedy Central, Sarah’s place of work, with all proceeds going to Project Peanut Butter.

I was all kinds of fired up! Finally, I was testing the theory that my personal interests and quirks might be of some useful impact if lined up strategically. Let’s be real here, there ain’t nothing Oprah-style about Sarah’s Three-Point Plan to save the world. But it was simple and perfect!! It sorta felt like when you meet an attractive and funny guy, who may be crazy. But it’s that totally awesome high-functioning crazy when he just owns who he is and makes the very best of use of it. So consequently, your high-functioning craziness feels safe, special and appreciated. And then YOU feel all attractive and funny and crazy..ahhhhh! I was in love, friends. And as I moved through each step of my plan, I fell deeper and deeper.

Step 1 of my plan was like those early amazing, “maybe I’m high on crack” stages of a relationship. Everything that you or he says is just so funny and smart. And damn, it just smells so good all the time! The weekly donation of 15 dollars was easier and more rewarding than I thought. Project Peanut Butter accepts online donations and this point was non-negotiable. I have no tolerance in the year 2008 for the ancient art of writing paper checks. It is only acceptable if you have a time-traveling Delorean, and you owe money to The Scarlet Pimpernell or a dinosaur.

But beyond the actual process, the ease of budgeting the donation has been the most eye-opening. All that’s required to save a child’s life is that I remember to look thoughtfully at my own on bill day. The weekly reminder that I have the 15 bucks it takes to buy all of the plumpy’nut ingredients makes the world a lot smaller and a little easier to manage than I often think it is.

So my plan and I spent more and more time together, and even had a fight or two. But finally we realized we loved each other and decided to take it to the next level. We moved on to Step 2 and contacted Project Peanut Butter directly.

Writing the email to the info@projectpeanutbutter listed on the group’s website made me nauseous and nervous in that way when you tweek about what to wear when you meet your new boyfriend’s parents. In the way that The Outfit must convey every subtle detail of your personality and your intentions with their son, I felt like my email to Project Peanut Butter had to change the world by the simple act of clicking “send”. But as I struggled to re-write “I Have a Dream” a 1000 times, I realized I had lost sight of the big goal of the plan. I simply needed to offer MY feelings and MY skills as they stand right now. So I described how the 60 Minutes segment moved me… which it did. I told them that I not only believed in the cause, but as a media professional I saw great potential in marketing plumpy’nut in a big and relevant way..which I do. And in conclusion, I said “by the way, I’ve never done anything like this before and I have no idea what I’m talking about..so I’m just starting with a bake sale thing’y”…which was true. It was all true. And within an hour of sending that email, I received an enthusiastic response from Mardi Manary, a nurse who started Project Peanut Butter with her husband Dr. Mark Manary.

So Mardi and I met over the phone and she told me the impressive story you would expect from a woman whose family has been dedicated to profound service. But what I didn’t expect was that this woman whose choices in life would qualify her as extraordinary in anyone’s book, was pretty much like everybody else. For all that Mardi has accomplished, she certainly didn’t have any reason to get as worked up as I was about my little plan. But she was engaged and encouraging, offering help for whatever I might need. Basically, it didn’t matter what I was wearing when I met my plan’s mom so long as I cared about it deeply. My plan’s mom was awesome.

If you’re lucky enough to negotiate these stages of a relationship successfully, all that’s left is to integrate your special someone into everyday life. It was time for my plan to meet all of my friends and Step 3’s charity Baked Goods Buffet at Comedy Central was the perfect opportunity. Except for one thing…

Step 3 made me want to throw up.

The Baked Goods Buffet itself was not that big of a deal. The Comedy Central offices are used to ridiculous organized events like bake-offs, super competitive bowling leagues and ping-pong tournaments. It’s a fun joint where people love taking things to the next level. But until recently, I’ve kept my hippie optimism in the closet for fear of being called naive or even worse…a freaking dork. Now here I am telling all of my friends and co-workers “Guess what, I CAN make a difference! And so can you!!! Just bring a baked good to the Large 8 conference room and any donation you can spare to partake in all of the treats baked in love!!! YES WE CAN! YAAAAYYYY! NAMASTE!!!!” Oh god, what if they hated my Three-Point Plan to save the world and thought it was so boring and dorky?!

But the instant the first email invitation went out, nothing but Checks and Cash and Sweets and Support came flying back. My friends went above and beyond just attending and donating to Project Peanut Butter. I was grateful for their time and generosity, but above all I marveled at how their own unique personalities fit into the plan so beautifully. Erin’s triple chocolate cookies were ridiculously good. But it was her re-naming the cookies “Diabetes” that made them hilarious and special. It was Kim’s passionate belief in coffee and milk with dessert that made her buy boxes of Dunkin Donuts coffee, which I insisted wasn’t necessary. Of course they were totally killed by the end, “See, I told you!!!” It wasn’t my plan at all anymore. It was just all of us hanging out, making plumpy’nut.

At the end of the day, my friends and I ate enough sweets to ensure that the makers of all commercial toothpastes would beat this economic recession. And we also raised $1000 for Project Peanut Butter. According to their website, “Diabetes” cookies and wise coffee beverage choices made the following possible:

-We saved all the vulnerable children in two african villages.

-Paid the wages of two local workers at a Plumpy’nut production facility.

-Provided fuel for one truck to get Plumpy’nut to a remote village

-And with the bit left over, we saved five more children in the next village.

After the conference room was cleaned and the check was mailed, I met Plumpy’ut and his best friend Mr. Planters, for drinks at The W in Union Square. After way too many cosmos, the conversation got crazy deep. I told Plumpy’nut how grateful I was for the structure of our plan, but in the end I realized the best plan is no plan at all. When you take a moment to stop the relentless goal-setting we all do from Point A to Point B trying to control your life experience, you have a chance to see it just as it is. You can fully embrace the good fortune and opportunity that exists, right now. You feel all of the heartache and injustice that exists, right now. And right now, you have a chance to turn all of those elements into something profound, messy and fun.

When you approach life open and undefended, great things happen and you fall into real love…Right Now.

Plumpy’nut gave me a great big hug, but Mr. Planters was lit. He just got all beers and tears and cried his eyes out. That nut is crazy.

So the conclusion of “Visions of Plumpy’nut Dance in My Head” is choose your own adventure! As I have said somewhere in this blog before, I do NOT believe in placing orders with the universe. However, I am ok with an Amazon style wish-list.

Wish 1: If you’re picking up what I’ve been laying down here, please visit projectpeanutbutter.org and buy the ingredients to make one serving of plumpy’nut. For the millionth time, it’s 15 dollars and you will save one child’s life. Aaaand if you do, please write SARAHCENTRIC in the field that asks, “how did you hear about us?”. I asked Mardi Manary to add this field to their donation page so we could track how much plumpy’nut is purchased based on this blog and the Comedy Central charity event. I got big Plumpy’nut plans, people, and a significant number would really help.

Wish 2: Forward this blog instead of some weird youtube link of a dog skateboarding, and TELL EVERYONE YOU KNOW about my best friend Plumpy’nut! Not everyone can squeeze a donation into their budget right now, but you may know someone whose checking account can handle it right now.

Right now.

Right now.

Right now.

Plumpy’nut forever!

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The following conversation between Sarah Jackson and her best friend of 12 years, Andrew, took place on June 15th, 2008. Sarah and Andrew were discussing the plot of a movie in which many characters are compelled to kill themselves.

This conversation actually took place. For real.

Andrew: If I kill myself, I know exactly what I’m going to do.

Sarah: (….)

Andrew: Are you there?!

Sarah: Ughhh, YES! I wasn’t listening…go on…

Andrew: Ok. So. If I HAVE to kill myself, I’m heading to the zoo and walking into a lion’s cage. I figure there will be at least one minute before the lion tweeks, and I can make my dream come true. I’ll finally get a chance to wrap my arms around a big, cute lion’s neck and give him a huge hug!

Sarah:(….)

Andrew: So?!

Sarah: What?

Andrew: Well, what do you think?!

Sarah: Sorry, I was trying on an old dress that I hated last year. I think I still hate it…

Andrew: Come on! You don’t think that’s awesome?! Hugging a lion?!

Sarah: I don’t know, it’s fine. But all of that hair from its mane would get in your mouth and stuff..bleecch. I’d go for a freaking tiger. Just as a cute of a head.

Andrew: Oh. Well, I was thinking of a female lion anyway.

Sarah: Wait, what? A female lion?

Andrew: Yeah.

Sarah: Please, that doesn’t even make sense! Andrew, if you’re going for a lion, why a female lion with no mane?!

Andrew: I don’t know. They’re pretty.

Sarah: Whatever…No. You’re hugging a tiger. You’ll get more bang for your buck.

Andrew: Ok, fine! But you have to be there with a camera. Before it kills me, I’ll make sure to turn its head when I hug it so you can get an awesome picture of us smiling together!

Sarah: Duh. Of course.

Andrew: And put it on myspace… but not if I look fat!

Sarah: Well, you’re going to have remember to keep your chin down when I take the picture.. and before the tiger eats you.

Andrew: I still don’t understand why it can’t be a female lion…

Sarah: I’m not even arguing with you about this anymore. I’m totally right…

In the interest of full disclosure, we here at Sarahcentric felt it was our obligation to release the full transcripts of this conversation. You, the reader, can now make a fully informed decision before applying any of Sarah’s perspective or advice to your own life. Sarah may write about family, life, love and oreo cakester. But she also think it’s completely normal to helps friends decide which dangerous wild animal is best to cuddle…and that is quite obviously a tiger.

You’ve been warned.

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“Part II?! Was my Blog DVR not set to record Part I?! DAMN IT!” No need to worry…you can find Part I of this riveting tale right here.

Hmmm…where was I? Oh…right!

And so there I am trying to choose which goblet was more likely to be the Holy Grail, (please, like there was even a choice. Hellooooo…Carpenter’s Son!), when Harry Potter appears and is all “Sarah, I think that Plumpy’nut could be a Horcrux!”. And I’m all, “Harry, please! I find it pretty hard to believe that He Who Must Not Be Named would turn Plumpy’nut into a Horcrux! Now, did you bring Pumpkin Juice like I asked? I’m thirsty as hell!”

Then, I swear to God, James Franco shows up!! And he looked crazy hot, like in that “Pineapple Express” trailer! And don’t worry, he definitely asked me out on a date. But you know…whatever! Where was he when I was available?! So I’m all, “James that is really sweet and yes, you look crazy hot. But you know what, kinda busy right now trying to solve childhood malnutrition here.” And he just turned away and moped out, like all sad and stuff. And you know that Harry Potter loved it. He gave me a high-five and was all “girlfriend, you were FIERCE!” and I was all “DIVA, you know this!! Now let’s get back to work!”

Wait…No. That was last weekend. Oh, I remember!

Hungover on the couch. In Queens. A pint of ice cream… probably Oatmeal Cookie Chunk.

The real details of the day that 60 Minutes segment on Plumpy’nut aired don’t look like fertile ground for charitable inspiration on paper, or “on blog”. But in looking back, I’m sure the World knew that if it needed any of my help, it would have to catch me at my least distracted and most receptive. Since I am no longer a college student who can drink Quarter Drafts all night long and hangovers have become a major medical emergency for me, the World’s timing was perfect.

Ok, Plumpy’nut 101. Get your notebooks out. Since I barely passed my science Regents exams in high school, here is a quote directly from the 60 Minutes transcripts.

Why are so many kids dying? Because they can’t get the milk, vitamins and minerals their young bodies need. Mothers in these villages can’t produce enough milk themselves and can’t afford to buy it. Even if they could, they can’t store it — there’s no electricity, so no refrigeration. Powdered milk is useless because most villagers don’t have clean water. Plumpynut was designed to overcome all these obstacles.

It is basically made of peanut butter, powdered milk, powdered sugar, and enriched with vitamins and minerals. It tastes like a peanut butter paste. It is very sweet, and because of that kids cannot get enough of it… It doesn’t need refrigeration, water, or cooking; mothers simply squeeze out the paste. Many children can even feed themselves. Each serving is the equivalent of a glass of milk and a multivitamin.

Now, this is where someone else would write about fiery waves of human outrage and the shedding of a thousand saintly tears. But this is SARAHcentric…not someonelsecentric. Nope. I just took a shower and got ready for bed.

But apparently, the World had made room for a jar of Plumpy’nut on some shelf in my brain. Look, I’m not a robot and I was definitely moved by the terrible suffering of these African families. And then you see the amazing work of volunteers like Doctors Without Borders who witness senseless death like that first-hand everyday. It is unfathomable. Unfortunately, there are a gazillion painful stories like this. And the scope of these tragedies is so massive that it can feel almost impossible to really connect with it on a personal level. Bottom line, these stories make me sad. But at the end of day, I just don’t get it. Pain and tragedy on that level are so inconceivable to me, (thank god), how can I possibly relate?

However, if you tell me the solution to a crazy world crisis is pretty much just a regular grocery item….
And best of all, the product’s name is pretty much the best name for anything. Ever. In the entire world?

Now I get it.

Ok, so now you’re thinking, “Sweet! This is where Sarah starts a huge letter writing campaign and then she swears off all Peanut Butter until every child in Africa has access to Plumpy’nut!”

Wrong.

For 3 or 4 months, Plumpy’nut was nothing more than a conversation starter or filler with friends when I felt compelled to bring it up out of nowhere. Once in a while, I’d google Plumpy’nut just to see how it was doing, and to see if it was dating anyone. But when Plumpy’nut rode the subway home with me popping in and out of my brain again, months after I’d seen that 60 Minutes… I went ahead and just asked him what the hell he wanted.

So finally, Plumpy’nut and I sat down over some sandwiches, (obviously Plumpy’nut only had jelly on his bread) for a brainstorm about what we thought I could bring to the table. Of course, there was the “Oprah’s Big Give” style plans in which one little spark lights a fire that could wipe world hunger off the face of the Earth. But once again, dreams like that…I don’t really get it. Dream big. Whatever, fine. But don’t dream so big that your original inspiration becomes a hot mess. Let me put it this way; when you plan to run your first marathon you’re all about the number 26.2, as in the insane amount of miles some fool decided we should run to feel like complete human beings. But I got news for ya’… when race day arrives, the ONLY thing you can wrap your dehydrated head around is the number 1; one more step, one more step. That’s how it gets done.

Right at the top of the meeting, I explained to Plumpy’nut that my only goal this year is to investigate the person that I really am at any given moment, and then just be that person no matter what. I am not Mother Teresa or Dr. King, no matter how much I wish I could be. Plumpy’nut thought I sounded a little flaky and made a couple of snotty jokes about hacky-sacks and bongos. But he was willing to work with me to come up with a solution. After a few hours, Plumpy’nut and I came up with a to-do list.

1) The amount of Plumpy’nut needed to save one child’s life costs 15 bucks. Plumpy’nut and I agreed that I would figure “one jar of Plumpy’nut” a week into my weekly groceries budget. When I buy my Jif, I would also buy Plumpy’nut. (By the way, Jif is the only peanut butter there is and I don’t want to hear a word about it.)

2) Plumpy’nut asked that I contact someone at Project Peanut Butter, an American group which runs plumpy’nut factories and medical teams feeding children in Sierra Leone and Malawi. He wanted me to personally offer my assistance and tell them about some of my ideas. I agreed, reluctantly. “Fine! But I’m going to tell them I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, and none of this stuff may work, and that this is all your stupid idea!” Plumpy’nut agreed.

3) I have taken my problem with baking and sweets to work for my 6.5 years at Comedy Central. Not only do I bake on the weekends for my co-workers, but I’ve also coordinated ridiculously competitive bake-offs at the office. Since I am lucky enough to have friends as co-workers, (which means they must be as strange as I am), I figured I could arrange a charity bake-off thing in honor of our last week at an old office space, and to build some good karma for our move to Comedy Central’s new digs downtown. Very delicious. Very fun. Very me…and very in line with my hippy, Buddhist resolution. Plumpy’nut agreed that my friends and I are strange, so it just might work.

By the time Plumpy’nut finished his jelly sandwich and left, we had a working plan to turn my thoughts, interests and friends into… something. For…someone. And I was pretty sure it involved baked goods.

As I told Plumpy’nut earlier, when I watch the news I sometimes wish I could be a Gandhi on a Salt March, or a Rosa Parks sitting at the front of the bus. And sometimes I want to be Thandie Newton because she has good hair, or Tina Fey because she’s freaking hilarious. But all I can really do is persistently live and love my own life as truthfully as possible. Norman Fischer put it far better than I just did in a talk he gave called “Calling Yourself”. He is an awesome Zen teacher who should be famous, and if he were my professor in college, I would have had a crush on him.

“When that vastness–when that indefinable, inconceivable aspect of the universe decides to appear where I’m sitting the only the only way it can appear is like this. The only way the universe can manifest itself where you’re sitting is through you– through your body, through your life, through your disasters and joys and problems.”

That’s good enough for me. And it sure as hell better be good enough for Plumpy’nut.

To be continued…

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I am so overdue for a new blog post that I think I’m going to get blog detention. Or I could lose my blog parking privileges. Don’t worry, my mom wrote a blog excuse.

Dear Principal of Blog High,

Please excuse Sarah’s blog tardiness. In order to accommodate life’s new appointments these past two weeks, I thought it would be alright for Sarah to stay home from Blog school and skip her weekly posts in order to take it all in.

Sarah is currently with her sister for the Covered Bridges half-marathon, kicking off in Quechee, Vermont tomorrow morning. She’s looking forward to the exhaustion and exhilaration of her fifth half-marathon, and the inappropriate amounts of Vermont sage cheddar cheese she plans on eating immediately following. (Sarah tells me it is one of the most delicious things on the planet. I have never sampled this myself, but I am inclined to believe her since she’s so right on about so many other things! And she has such great taste! And she’s so funny! And she’s so smart! I mean, how could she possibly be wrong?! Oh, just a Blog Mom’s bias, I guess…hahahaha.)

But no need to worry! Life has sent her Blog assignments home with friends and I’ve made certain she’s keeping up on all her Blog homework; taking copious notes on all life has to offer. I took a look at her journal today, (BlogMom’s Rights), and I think you’ll be very pleased with her work. Here is a sample of some of the hard work Sarah’s been doing…

-When Sarah moved to a new office location for her day job at Comedy Central, she made a conscious choice to embrace the change as opposed to rejecting it…or “having a freaking thrombosis” about it as is her usual custom.

-Sarah invited at least three more people into the Oreo Cakester Fan Club. There’s plenty of new meeting space at her office and she’s looking forward to a weekly OCFC meeting. As part of their work, Sarah and one of the new members sampled the newest treat in the Cakester family, the ‘Nilla Cakester. They were not impressed. “I don’t know, I just thought it would be like the most kick-ass Twinkie ever…it doesn’t even taste like anything!”

-Sarah has taken much advantage of the beautiful warm weather, going back to her hippie roots. After all she’s half-white too and is “saying yes to everything” these days. This research is very thorough, including participation at a Bob Dylan-fest at her hometown winery, a day long shoot for work outdoors and the ultimate Green experience of a long weekend in Vermont. It has made her very nostalgic for her upstate NY childhood and WAY upstate college education. Sarah has done all of these things while re-reading her man Barack Obama’s book, “Dreams of My Father”. Sarah has found great inspiration and insight in what both she and Barack both have in common, but she is feeling a little guilty about comparing her life questions and struggles to his. No one knows what her book will end up being about, but Sarah does know this entry is included somewhere, “I want to be back in the country someday but the fact is I must never see a tick on my skin. There’s no way…because I will be so grossed out I’ll probably die right there on the spot. And if I do actually see it, that means it has taken so much of my blood that’s it’s probably a vampire and I am now the living dead. Look, the city may smell like crap 80% of the time and a gallon of milk costs 23 bucks. But at least a tick will never bite me at a bodega!”

-Sarah is most excited to finish her entry about Plumpy’nut fundraising with the good people of Comedy Central. She plans on blowing that entry OUT in order to kick-start a fundraising drive right here from sarahcentric. In fact, you can get to plumpy’nut purchasing right now! Click on Project Peanut Butter on her blogroll, buy ONE jar of plumpy’nut for $15 and add “sarahcentric” to the field which asks how you heard about the organization. We’re trying to keep a good record of how much plumpy’nutting is going on for corporate sponsor purposes later. But if you’re not in the mood now, you will be after reading Visions of Plumpy’nut Dance in my Head, Part II. Sarah says, “I told y’all I’m going to blow that out, sun!” But why not read the first entry in the meantime right here.

-But by far, Sarah is most intrigued by the new challenges her cranky train ride home after a looooong shoot presented. Sarah was stewing on the awful rush hour train being a VERY bad Buddhist, when she looked back and saw two Buddhist Monks who she spent a week with at a New Year’s meditation retreat! Just seeing their faces and a quick hello lined a lot of stuff up for Sarah and she was able to leave some of the baggage that was definitely not necessary right there on the train.

Sarah will be back at her Blog desk no later than Tuesday, June 3. If you have any questions, comments or assignments for her to catch up on, please feel free to pass them along. I don’t want Sarah thinking that just because she’s not going to Blog School, she gets to sit around in her pajamas, eating ice cream and watching Ducktales all day.

Thank you so much for your understanding, Blog Principal.

Sincerely,
BlogMom

Sweeeet! Now I can cut and go to Friendly’s with my friends and drive around and stuff!

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I don’t know when I became an inspirational quote collector. But all of a sudden I’m the girl who reads a poem and gets all teary-eyed. And don’t worry, I definitely forward it to all of my friends with some square-ass note like “oh my god, so true!!!”. And worst of all, I print it out and tape it to my computer at work. Are you kidding me?! Feeling happy and touched is a serious risk to my street cred here in New York City…I could be killed! And hello, I work as a comedy writer with other comedy writers. How in the hell are my Jack Handey moments supposed to fit in at the office?! Whatever… it looks like inspirational quotes are sticking around for a while so everyone better get used to it.

Of course, I still think life is so irritating sometimes that I wonder who the hell invited it to my party. There’s not just the awful examples of human suffering like in China or Myanmar now, but the everyday challenges we all face that make us completely numb. I got a text from a friend recently who had one of these hopeless days. All it said was “Life is terrible. Over and out.” Of course she was fine an hour later and we cracked up. But as we all know, in the moment you’re moved to thumb that text out… curiously, not so funny.

But now I’m Miss Meditation who is “saying yes to everything” and I have to make room for both sides of the coin. I am no longer interested in making impossible demands from the world in order to fulfill a small story of the person I think I ought to be. That thinking falls under the umbrella of “placing your order with the universe” nonsense that I just don’t buy. Number 1) the universe has got bigger fish to fry then my career goals, perfect boyfriend and ideal weight. And 2) you don’t even get a tracking number!

I’m not looking to cram the whole world into my comfort zone by striving or complaining anymore. Instead, it’s all about reminding myself that I am actually a part of this world exactly as I am now. There are all kinds of fun rights that come along with that, and a certain amount of responsibility. The only thing I have to do is be myself, period. That is the only goal and the only resolution you’re all going to hear from me next New Year’s Eve.

Inspiration isn’t getting taped to my computer because it’s lovely and pretty. It makes it there because this new goal of mine feels a little disorienting and embarrassing sometimes, and a sister needs some support along the way. I’m working to build some sort of vision of the world here that’s hilarious and even fun at times, but also beneficial to someone who lives outside of my brain. But still, I am who I am. And I ain’t never going to Calcutta like Mother Teresa, because my hair would be a disaster in that humidity. No…if the world wants my help, it better have a pretty specific need for my unique skills and abilities; writing, baking, hanging out, laying around and eating.

And wouldn’t you know it! World called me in for my first interview when I was hungover on my couch eating ice cream on a Sunday night. I caught a 60 Minutes segment on childhood malnutrition in Africa and a new therapeutic food that could help end all of that…Plumpy’nut. (Before I go any further, I would like to commend you, World, on your excellent timing of a malnutrition story while I inhaled ice cream, and a product name like “Plumpy’nut” which is simply too catchy and funny for my brain to forget. Kudos.)

To be continued

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There is a meditation mat in my Queens bedroom that I sit on most everyday for at least 30 minutes. I sit in front of a window that has a plant, candle and a small Buddha statue on its sill. This week I had a powerful realization; a profound breakthrough in my practice that I would like to share with all of you.

I hump meditation.

Let me be very clear right from the start. I am not some new-age, enlightened, crystal child. When I meditate there are no fireworks, radiant voices or levitation. Thank GOD for that! Because honestly, I would think my brain was haunted or something and I do not need that kind of stress! Nope, sometimes I get sad, or angry, or just really bored. And my right foot is still not havin’ it. It falls asleep on me almost every time. But still, the process of sitting mindfully in order to “”wake up out of thought”, I got news for ya’…no freaking joke.

I would like to take you through one of my typical sittings based on this perfect explanation of what one is trying to accomplish in meditation from Tara Brach. She is an excellent Buddhist meditation teacher who should be famous..or at least be my best friend. This comes from a talk she gave called “The Art of Practice”.

“…Pause. Relax and just sense…much like a cat would be at a mouse hole…in a relaxed way. You’re just waiting to see when the next thought will come…”

Here is a snapshot from my brain of the first few minutes of a typical sitting.

The swami turban on Tom’s head is no accident. Don’t think for one minute that I don’t loooove sitting on my sage meditation mat which looks lovely against my orange curtains and green Buddha, ready for instant enlightenment right here in Queens. But after following no more than three glorious breaths in and out, millions of insane thoughts come tumbling down. They are as obnoxious and adorable as Jerry in those little Aladdin pants! How the hell am I supposed to ignore that?! In classic over-achieving, runner Sarah mode, I try to attack the problem by blocking the thoughts. But no dice. Jerry’s not going anywhere.

Then I remember the whole point of this business; I need to “just sit and be” with whatever is happening right now. This is when I take off my turban and remember that I’m just Sarah in Queens wearing yoga pants and a t-shirt that says “Oh no, you didn’t!!”. This is perfectly fine. I’m taking a break (remember “pause and relax”) to just sit here and investigate the situation a bit. And most importantly, I must try not to judge these running thoughts or myself. Relate to them and feel whatever feelings may be attached to them. And when I’m done, I need to let them go. Although this particular image of Jerry taking a bath is going to be pretty hard to release.

Now here is the good stuff that makes pins & needles in your foot totally worth it. Once I’ve stopped beating myself up for not being a living Buddha in Queens and I am able to sit peacefully, I can see all of these thoughts for exactly what they are. Sometimes they are as ridiculous as cartoon mice in bathtubs. But other times there are some big mama-jama things in there. They look more like those terrifying Orcs in “Lord of the Rings”. But however gross and heartwrenching they may be, there is no need to run from them or even freak out. In fact, I need to “make friends” with them. (Another Tara Brach special) Give them whatever attention they actually deserve and THEN let me go. Because whether they are Jerrys or Orcs, they’re all just thoughts that will most definitely pass. And better yet, when they disappear I am still there, steady and planted on my mat. A Zen teacher named Norman Fischer puts it this way, “Deny nothing. Say yes to everything.” It makes me feel a little brave…like Mr. Frodo.

Here we are at the end of the session, which I’ve usually scheduled to end right before “Project Runway” or “Lost”. Look, I told you…far from enlightened. But in the way I schedule my workouts or Maximum Comfort time, it’s just as important to schedule a couple of minutes each day where I prove to myself I can handle whatever, whenever. It’s evidence that I can sit and just hang with all of the complicated stuff. Meditation proves that the majority of my thoughts during the day are just Jerrys; pretty ridiculous scenarios that I’ve concocted which are not even really happening. (I’m sorry, mice don’t really wear little Fez caps) And when the freaking Orcs find me, I can be scared or sad as hell. But I will always find my way back to The Shire where there is nothing but room, sky and crazy parties for Bilbo Baggins.

Denying nothing, saying yes to everything.
Or at least freaking trying.

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At our last family gathering, my brother Luke summed up the Jackson experience perfectly.

“They should start a 24 hours news channel FOR us and BY us… all Jackson all the time. We’d deliver up to date news on what we’ve each been doing all day. ‘This just in, Sarah said her lunch was delicious today, but her cookie wasn’t that good’… And we’d have that news crawl at the bottom, just like CNN!”

Being a Jackson is relentless.

Now it’s not that I don’t love my family. In fact, I love them so much it feels like a whole other expression of emotion…obsession maybe? Nahh, still not sufficient. Maybe it’s more like “If I had not been incarnated with this group of individuals, the universe would unravel as we know it. Up would be down. Day would be night. And Oreo Cakesters would just be crappy Hydrox cookies. Or even worse, VIENNA FINGERS!!”

Yes, that sounds pretty accurate. Some bullet points so you can really taste the experience.

• We are loud…really loud…Like LOUD. And it’s not only our voices, but all of the guitars laying around the house; both real and the mini Guitar Hero version. Here is how we communicate. At the last celebration, my brother’s soft-spoken girlfriend Nadine made a delicious chocolate cake. Instead of the usual polite compliments and a second slice, we all picked up our forks, banged them on the table and chanted as loud as we could, “NA-DINE! NA-DINE! NA-DINE!” We all hope she comes back….with more chocolate cake.

• My sisters and I talk on the phone at least three times a day to update each other on important daily events; ”I had the best sandwich at Panera…What are you watching?…Do you think I should blow my hair out, it’s going to rain!” If one of us has fallen off the grid and has skipped ONE DAY of communication, the following emergency plan goes into affect immediately. 1) Call the other sister and sound the alarm, “Where is Sarah?! What a bitch!” 2) Send out an All-points Bulletin via voicemail, emails, texts and myspace comments, all with the same copy “Oh hello Sarah, it’s me! Remember when we were sisters?!” 3) If there is no response to phase 1, drastic measures must be taken. “Oh hello Sarah!! This is Chris and Rebekah. We just want to let you know we’re taking an ad out in the local paper, “New Sister Wanted!!” (Click) This usually does it.

• My youngest brother Aaron, at the age of 23, still thinks the funniest, most classic joke there is, is a good old fashioned scare. Now everyone else on the planet knows that this joke sucks almost as much as those awesome April Fools Day pranks, (”Oh, I heard you have cancer..hahaha, you’re not dying! April Fools Day!!”). But Aaron has truly raised the heart attack level by not just waiting for the traditional two seconds behind the front door when you walk in. No. Instead, Aaron will hide for at LEAST 10 minutes allowing you to completely relax and settle in before scaring the living daylights out of you. You not only scream at the top of your lungs, “Aaron!! G–Dammit!!”, but you laugh your freaking face off. Because even though you think your life is over, a Jackson is required by blood to honor a carefully constructed joke.

This is the tip of a very loud and insane iceberg. And there ain’t another one in the big, blue ocean I’d rather crash into. But on the weekends I visit the ol’ gang and I forget my earplugs, I escape to the family in my mind for a little peace. Allow me to introduce my imaginary family.

My father, Tim Russert.

Brilliant, upstate New York native. And I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t play jazz scales on the guitar at 730am with the amp up at full blast.

My mother, Alfre Woodard.

Classy, sensitive and warm. And I don’t think she would email letting me know she just got back from a firing range where she used a 357 magnum and a “baby glock” for the first time.

My brothers and sisters, the stars of Facts of Life and Different Strokes.

If those girls were my sisters, we would all live in the same room and they’d never NOT know where I was. If Arnold Drummond was my brother, his famous joke “what are you talkin’ about, Willis?” wouldn’t throw me into cardiac arrest.

I’ve spent a few brief moments with my alternative family of television personalities…and it’s pretty mild and fine. But I can’t stay away from my favorite channel for too long. JacksonTV. 24/7. I gotta keep up on all the important news.

I wonder what our network tag would be, the dramatic VO you always hear at the end of a TV promo, “ABC… Start Here.”

Probably something like, “Jackson TV…Aaron, G–Dammit!”

Tim Russert would be our VO guy.

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For those of us who practice Maximum Comfort, we know it’s a powerful life tool. But if you aren’t intimately familiar with the subtleties of the art as described in my previous entry, you may be confused.

“Ummmm, cool Sarah. It’s so great you’re writing now. But, this kind of sounds like depression…maybe? I don’t know…”

The mistake is common and completely understandable. The traditional dress and cuisine for both is basically identical! But I ain’t all sweetness and light, unicorns and rainbows, hoodies and sneakers. I’m not always the brawd at the end of the self-help book who takes a meaningful breath, leaks jeweled tears and proclaims, “I get it now…I love ME more!”

Life is so beautiful sometimes it can hurt your eyes. Amazing things happen all of the time. They have actually happened to me. BUT I also know for a fact that things fall apart, all the time. That’s happened to me, too.

Sometimes life just freaking whomps.

It is nothing but insane opposites we’re expected to somehow process; all ups and downs, sweet and sour. You can be all breezy-town, enjoying a nice summer day. And then, OW! The other shoe drops. Out of nowhere… on your big toe…when you’re wearing sandals.

So, for real! Why bother picking out an outfit to go back out into the emotional booby trap of a world when there is a perfectly soft and worn in pair of yoga pants and t-shirt for you to live in? Safe on your couch with your DVR. Forever.

Aaaaaaand right HERE, is where luminous Maximum Comfort morphs into its dark and evil sister…The Pits.

Do not panic. Do not tweek. Totally fixable.

The key to discerning Maximum Comfort from The Pits is to locate an object in the vicinity to use as an emotional compass. It should be one of the accessories from your MC/Pits day. Take a deep breath and see how you are relating to said item to get a reading. My emotional compass is the Oreo Cakester.

My love of Oreo Cakesters came from one the Pits-iest moments of them all…a break-up. It was the kind of upset that goes beyond sad. I was closed for freaking business. During that sinkhole of a state, I saw a commercial for this delicious new treat. I swear to you, this was the only thing I could eat for a week. Was it because there’s no dangerous cookie crunch to upset your teeth and push you into a further depression? Maybe it’s because they’re just so dang cute; adorable cartoon versions of real Oreos ready to entertain and keep you company.

“Oh hahaha, Mr. Cakester, I love that song! You’re so funny and you’re my best friend! I shouldn’t call him, right?”

After about a week on this diet, I had a moment of clarity. I was a 31 year old woman eating two Oreo Cakesters for dinner. Something wasn’t right. I wasn’t eating this out of fun just hanging out with myself, a rare Maximum Comfort treat. I was eating them because I was hiding out from the reality of what was really going on. I was nauseously sad. Or maybe that nausea was from the Cakesters? Either way, after about a week, I put them down and then the real feelings came up. Like crazy.

I said this. He said that. My teacher in 5th grade said this, that’s why I said that. It took some time, but I finally realized I was throwing whatever story I could on the walls; desperate for any reason to stick as to why everything felt so painfully wrong. What I really needed was to stop throwing nonsense at the walls and just stand where it’s quiet and still; in the center of the room.

I was sad still, no doubt. But at least I was finally available to make a safe space to take good care of myself. And that, my friends, I know how to do! Comfy pants, ratty t-shirt, and the OCCASIONAL Oreo cakester. I successfully returned from The Pits to safe Maximum Comfort levels.

The Great Cakester incident was about nine months ago and I am happy to report this is one of the happiest, most fulfilled times of my life. So much so that I can’t believe I actually just wrote “happiest, most fulfilled times of my life”! Ewwww…It’s a pretty strange feeling for me to get used to. But remember, I’m not all hoodies and sneakers. The clouds still roll in and right over my face. But now I think the trick to handling all of the conflicting moments that life is made up of, is to not handle them at all! Let the bad stuff come, and then let it pass. Let the beautiful stuff come and let that pass, too. There is room for it all in the center of the room…

…With an appropriate portion of Cakesters.

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My personal trainer Bryant is not a runner like me, but a crazy runner. Here is the difference.

I just want to freaking finish, whether it be a 5K, half-marathon and ESPECIALLY a full marathon. (I am not exaggerating when I tell you that the only thing preventing me from not jumping on the subway after mile 15 was the fact that I knew my sisters were waiting for me at the end in Central Park. They would have been pissed.)

Losing weight was very cool and I like how running still keeps it off. I pick really pretty races, like the Covered Bridges Half-Marathon, and take my sweet time; listening to my iPod and daydreaming about what kind of treats they will have at the finishers area. (Once again, Covered Bridges is the way to go…free Otter Creek beer and rockin’ chocolate chip cookies. Ewww, don’t eat them together though.)

Now, ya’ see..Bryant’s different. He’s a sprinter. (I think he told me he finished a 5K in 37 seconds and traveled back in time like Christopher Reeve in “Superman II”…or something like that.) Also, he and his friends get together and watch tapes of runners, well…running.

See? That’s crazy.

And it’s more than putting just one foot in front of the other for Bryant. It’s the entire body working at an optimum level so you can run as efficiently and safely as possible. That means not just running, but overall strength training as well. He also says that building muscle is good for the whole metabolism situation. You’ll continue to burn calories when you’re in a resting mode. This theory sounds vaguely like The Doozers from Fraggle Rock. They’re the adorable race of construction workers who built structures all day, which the Fraggles loved to eat as snacks. But the Doozers just kept on building. I really hope this is accurate, because Doozers are the freaking cutest and it’s nice to think about them again. (See below)

Anyphway, I am officially 179 years old now, at least in running on city-streets years. My knee has started acting like a real a–hole and I wanted to get some tips on technique to prevent any major injury. This is why the cosmos brought Bryant and I together. Dear Bryant didn’t know one very crucial thing about me.

I have no muscles.

Bryant doesn’t believe me, but I have proof! Whenever I picked up a hand weight in the past I instinctually dropped it and said “Oh. Well that’s too heavy” and went back to my life on the treadmill and stopped trying to fight gravity.

Yep, scientifically proven. There are no muscles in Sarah Jackson’s body; just a complicated system of pullies and/or levers getting me through my day. But Bryant continues to believe the world is round and makes me do ridiculous exercises like push-ups, lunges and squats. He’s nice and breezy, but sometimes when I want to stop and explain that what he’s asking me to do is simply impossible due my muscle-less condition, he gets all worked up, “Don’t give up on yourself! Come on! Come on!” I roll my eyes and indulge him; “alllll-right, Bryant…” staying in a plank position for 10 more seconds with a 25lb weight on my back.

Bryant is talented and inspiring, but he’s refusing to ignore my very obvious plight! Yes, of course, there has been some change in my performance. I can do several sets of push-ups and sit-ups now, but that’s obviously because my pullies and levers have re-programmed themselves to work under these new, stressful conditions!! But most alarming is how he continues to ignore the visual evidence! I mean, you’re actually starting to SEE all of my machinery now… in my arms and my abs!!

Poor, sweet, naive Bryant. When will he learn?

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I am black.
I am white.
And this is my first entry about all of that.
Get excited.

The Jackson children (my little sister’s arm is her only visible part behind my pumpkin head) The only white person in the photo is my lovely mother. And here is a great picture of the photographer, my dad, playing his gee-tar with my oldest brother looking on.

My two favorite “growing up mixed” stories…

1) Every time I had a hair appointment when I was little I showed the stylist the same picture of some android-like white girl with scientifically feathered hair. You can see the results of that haircut above. Needless to say, I was rarely pleased.
2) I knew I was “something”, but I looked a lot more like my mom. So around 4th grade, I chose Puerto Rican and told everyone my real name was Consuela. This started when Menudo was on “Silver Spoons” and ended when I told everyone in Mrs. Murray’s class that I could speak Spanish and was asked to read a Spanish poem out loud. Don’t worry, I did… and was exposed as a fraud when my mom heard about my performance in parent/teacher conferences.

There are a million light, funny memories like this when I was little, and plenty of confusing and desperate moments as I got older. Not from any shocking racism thrust upon me, but really from the compartmentalizing party I invited myself to after college.

Well, if I love Hall & Oates, I can’t be black. But what about these hips?! Those can’t be white! I even tried on the “it’s a race in and of itself” theory and that did nothing for me. That sounded like a riddle and just felt pretty lonely.

The compartmentalizing party is completely boring and frustrating, but it proved something to me. First of all, attendance is apparently mandatory. Every person I know, no matter what their background, has been desperate at times to feel safe and loved; willing to grab any “Hello, my name is…” label looking for a little protection from whatever life is fixing to throw at them. And I’ll tell you what, if I thought it worked, I’d wear every label I could. But the fact is, you may feel nice and secure in your career or relationship or your ideal weight, but life keeps on coming over and over again.

Some good, some bad.

Some gloriously good and some tragically bad.

Eventually, hopefullly, you throw out your label and make a gracious exit from the party. Because you can’t protect yourself by becoming small enough to disappear within one group or by making a quick escape into another. Instead you just become yourself; inviting every experience in, taking it for what it is and moving on to the next. No longer lame and small, just infinitely big…with tons more room to grow.

This can all sound Oprah and aha-y, but living this “bigger” style life for me feels a bit like emotional epilepsy. There are somedays when it all seems to be coming on too fast and I don’t know who I am or what the hell am I doing. My whole person can just feel really tight and cramped. And the compartmentalizing party, however lame, is always bumpin’…and at least I was invited.

But then I look at that picture of my family and realize I have all of the evidence I need that labels are no way to go.

One tiny couch photographed by my black father with a white mom, six lunatic kids every shade imaginable and an adopted child from the Cabbage Patch. All the proof I need is right there, in my family.

There is always more room on the couch. You just need to scooch out of your own way.

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