Please tell me your name is Sarah

Hi. I’m Sarah. Call me Sarah. Do not call me Ishmael. Because that is not my name, and it feels just a little bit too much like cultural appropriation. And I may have stolen that from Jennifer Lawson. Or possibly Moby Dick.

I am writing this, because we may be meeting for the first time at the conference named BlogHer ’14. But before we talk about that let me thank you for making it all the way here. If you like reading enough to actually look me up on my blog, I’m guessing that you also got that literary reference I just made. We’re so smart, me and you. But just a warning, my smartness does not actually include remembering your name, especially if I am tired, which is all the time.

allkindsofSarah

All kinds of Sarahs. Just kidding. They are all me!

When some people become fatigued they get cranky, but I lose the capacity to recall proper nouns. This is when I start yelling “dog, get out of the kitchen” and “children, go to bed” at the end of a long day. Oh, and I am probably cranky, too.

What is your name? (Put it in the comments. Seriously. I have no idea what your name is.)

Secretly, I am hoping your name is Sarah, because I collect those. My dream, actually, is to have friends who are only named Sarah. That way, I’ll never forget their names, and they will never feel offended, except when I offend them by saying other things like women should have the same rights as men and the same pay.

Recently, I have been actively looking for people named Sarah so I can approach them about being friends. I’m getting superstitious about this. And I have even paid to meet people named Sarah, like funding this Kickstarter for Sara Benicasa because duh. And she also said it was gay and there would be cheesecake, so obviously I should be there.
 

So anyway, it’s nice to meet you, Sarah.

Let’s be friends on all the social media:

Me on Facebook
This blog on Facebook
This blog on Twitter
Me on Twitter

I also write for BluntMoms, The HuffPost, Village Q.

See you there!

(Don’t forget to add your name to the comments.)

That moment when you realize your friend has new boobs.

This year, I got together with a friend who got new boobs. And yes, I am being intentionally vague to protect the children that are most likely reading this blog. But here’s the awkward part, I didn’t notice that they were actually new.

I mean, I guess I did, but bras can do amazing things. And I’m pretty sure they could do that. But maybe not. I don’t know. I’m not an expert on this subject. Actually, I do have some fairly specific expertise on this topic. Because I have probably held a few more boobs in my hand than the average American woman. But certainly not nearly as many as a mammography nurse or a lactation consultant. Holy crap, people! I’m not a slut!

Anyhow, back to the new boobs on the old friend. She had to point them out. And it was so awkward that I don’t even really remember how it went down, because I was traumatized by the whole event, and now it is a repressed memory that has re-surfaced just in time for this post. I must be healing.

Her: “Did you notice my implants?”

Me: “Uh, yes. I guess. They look great! Er. Good. Am I allowed to talk about your breasts?”

Her: “Well, I thought you might not have noticed.”

Me: “I noticed they looked a bit bigger, but I was raised by proper Anglophiles, and we don’t talk about people’s breasts. Or bodies, at all. We only discuss napkin rings, vacation homes, concertos and the Royal Family.”

Her: “What do you think? I didn’t want them to be too big.”

Me: “If you like them, I like them.” I wish I would stop saying I like them.

Her: “They’re a B.”

Me: “Nice. And I’m not going to say anything else, because then you’ll probably want me to touch them. That’s how these conversations usually go.”

Her: “Really, this happens to you often?”

Me: “Yes, every week, practically.”

That last part was a total lie, but what else could I say. I needed out. But now that we’re back in. So help! What do you say when your friend gets new boobs? And yes, I checked, this is not in the book “How to Win Friends and Influence People,” so help me! What are you people good for?

carnegie

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 © Sarah Ann Gilbert and Seven Little Mexicans, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Sarah Ann Gilbert and Seven Little Mexicans with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Saying goodbye to a friend. And there’s just nothing funny about that.

Most of the time, I use this little space on the web to point out stuff that is funny or ironic, but today is not one of those days. Because I can’t think about anything else to write about except for a life lesson that I had this week that came in the form of a friend whose funeral I attended. She was 38 and a mother of four when she died of breast cancer on July 26. This is her.

bridgette

 

And I know what you are thinking. That woman is frigging gorgeous, and she is. This is a picture of her during her cancer treatment! And if you think this picture of her is gorgeous, you should see her heart. It’s infinitely more beautiful and longer lasting than this beautiful face.

But what is the lesson in all this for me? (Because this blog is all about me, of course.) Well. I used to be jealous of Bridgette. According to me, she had the perfect family, she made friends easily, she was beautiful, and an athlete and had the perfect body. I could go on, but I think you’re getting my drift. She was also married and had two kids. I wanted to be married and have two kids. She had the perfect life.

Then, a year later she got divorced. My first indicator of imperfection. And shortly after that she met a new love, also someone I knew and cared about. A quiet guy, who is so kind, and has the same laugh as my brother. And they blended their families to make three kids, and then had a baby to make four. She was back to great, and I was no longer as jealous, because I knew her better by then. I saw more of her pain, and more of her heart, which made her more wonderful to me which, ironically, made me less envious not more. She was not perfect, anymore. She was real.

Then, Bridgette got cancer which ate away at her like some sort of zombie terrorist for months. It didn’t seem to matter what kind of chemo or drugs were thrown at it, the cancer persisted until it had consumed the critical parts of her. The parts that let her breathe. And by Monday, we were all gathered to say goodbye to her and to weep for her husband and her children, who only have memories and photographs left of their mother.

And that same day, the day we all cried together, I got this in my inbox.

jealous

And it was a slap in the face. Because six years after I met Bridgette for the first time, I am married (or getting married at least). And I have two kids. And a perfect body, because that body is here for me to enjoy another day with everyone. And this isn’t so much about pointing out what I have now that she doesn’t, but to say that comparing is a waste of energy, a waste of the real opportunity to know ourselves, and mostly a waste of love.

If I had let my jealously get in the way of my love and admiration for Bridgette, I would have never come to know her as the beautiful person that she is. I would have robbed both of us of the love that we did have for each other, small that it is. I will miss her, but her life and her death have given me a gift. The opportunity to appreciate mine.

Thanks to tinybuddha.com for the slap in the face. 

Follow this and a lot more on Facebook: www.facebook.com/sevenlittlemexicans 
Or find us on Twitter @7littlemexicans and #7LM
Follow my blog with Bloglovin

© Sarah Ann Gilbert and Seven Little Mexicans, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Sarah Ann Gilbert and Seven Little Mexicans with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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