Sara Walpert Foster

Photo Manipulations: Unexpected Results

How does he do that? The amazing Erik Johansson.

We Had Seasons in the Sun

The call came every February 21st of my adult life. It would go something like this:

Dad (sounding all proud of himself for remembering on his own): Happy Birthday Sara!

Me (laughing): Thanks, but you know what?

Long pause.

Dad (laughing too): I guess I did it again.

Me: Yup.

Dad: Guess I better call David. I’ll call you in a couple of days.

February 21st is my younger brother’s birthday. Mine is the 23rd. Easy mistake to make, but every single year?

Not that it bothered me. Truth is I looked forward to his call. It made me smile because he wasn’t one to make mistakes in front of his kids, but he laughed with me about his inability to keep things straight. AND I got to talk to him twice in one week. That is a lot considering Dad was a quiet guy. Not shy but unless he had something important to say, he let my Mom do most of the talking (which she is very good at – right, Mom?).

Well, for the sixth year in a row, I know that I will not hear from Dad today. Not possible. He died in June, 2006. Still, today, every time the phone rings, I will get my hopes up momentarily. Which makes this a tough day for me. Because I want to talk to him. I want to hear his laugh. Desperately.

The above photo is of Dad and my oldest child, just days after her birth. He wore the title “Poppy” proudly, as you can probably tell from the photo.

The following song was (maybe still is) one of my sister’s favorites once upon a time. I’m sharing it today for my Dad. But before I do, I want to say something to my brother: Happy Birthday David!

Grr, Bark, Woof

I wish my dog could read. But alas, I had to read this sign to him.

Mash-up: If it makes me happy, it can’t be that bad (thanks Sheryl Crow)

Daily life can be boring . . . or NOT. This week I found some blog posts that kept me feeling good.

A child lifted up my spirits.

juliekenner.com/2012/02/why-does-my-foot-stick-out-my-butt/

An idea helped me with a fresh way to go about my work.

thefitnessmoms.com/2012/02/15/black-out-poetry-inspiration/

I finally learned a fail safe way to fold my shirts (although I’m not sure I have it down yet).

neomanu.wordpress.com/2012/02/13/crumpled-mess-or-flat-perfection-your-choice/

And somebody reminded me that my life is my own to do with as I see fit.

www.danoah.com/2012/02/whose-life-is-it-anyway.html

Have a great weekend!

Stripped Down Downward Dog

Just out of college, most of us feel naked. We’re like newborns, suddenly thrown into this world so unlike what we’ve known before.  And then we get a job and that feeling begins to dissipate.

My first job was in Public Relations. The guy who hired me was looking for someone with strong writing skills so he could spend more of his time pitching stories by phone. It was an easy job for me to do and I did it pretty well, but I quickly got bored.

One day I was skimming the help wanted section of our local paper and saw an ad for a PR position that was a step up from what I was currently doing. I spent a moment considering whether it was worth it to move on after only a year in my job, and decided “why not?” It couldn’t hurt to apply and see how I felt about it after interviewing.

Then I read further. The company in need of somebody like me was a nudist colony. No joke. I promptly cut out the ad and sent to my parents with the note “I’m thinking of applying. What do you think?” It hung on a bulletin board by the washing machine at my parent’s house for years, but since I don’t have it to scan in and show, you’ll have to trust me.

Quickly, I decided the job wasn’t a good fit. I figured that if I worked for a nudist colony, I probably would have to walk around nude when on the property, and even if my employers would have let me wear clothes, I would have to find a way to be comfortable spending time with a whole lot of people, young and old, who 24/7 let it all hang out.

Now, I’m not a prude and I don’t think the naked body is embarrassing or disgusting or an off-limits topic to discuss (hence, this post). But, when I read this article, “My naked yoga class,” on the Salon website, I shuddered because I immediately thought about how uncomfortable I would be doing poses in the nude. My discomfort, I believe, would be more physical than mental, although I’m not too keen on sharing all my bits and pieces with a class full of random people. Clothes keep my womanly parts from flailing around when I go about my day and definitely protect me from black eyes (okay that may be extreme) or other bruising when going through the swinging motions of a sun salutation.

The writer of this article says that she discovered the reason people take “clothing optional” yoga is to recreate the childlike feeling of being “gloriously naked and free.”

When I want to feel that kind of childlike freedom, I go to the local playground and find the swing set. I can pump my legs and fly and lose all sense of self and time and of course, of clothes.

How about you?