"Sadness is kind of my religion." -Margaret Cho

One of my faithful blog readers is my dear mother, Evelyn B. This should come as no great shock, as it it a mother's duty to pay loving attention to all that oozes from her offspring. But, since Mom's a writer, too, her interest means that much more to me. It is she who gave me a true love and informed appreciation of the English language, teaching me to read from The New York Times at the age of 3 (by then, I could read AND UNDERSTAND the Daily News), annoying me at every turn thereafter with grammatical corrections and elocution lessons. Thank you, Mom. As much as the smartass kid resented your relentless efforts, the smartass adult is deeply grateful.

Mom aka Evelyn recently sent me an article from USA Weekend entitled "What's YOUR Blog?", containing information of which I, blogger of 3 months, was not aware. For instance, there's a weblog site that actually PAYS their members; a portion of the monthly $5.95 fee goes to the most widely read bloggers in the membership.

Ah...yet another in an endless series of popularity contests, which have long been anathema to me. Admittedly, I gave rapt attention to Miss America Pageants between the ages of 4 and 21. Yes, I have aspired to winning a Grammy, Oscar, Emmy, and Tony and have composed (and rehearsed) eloquent and entertaining speeches for each occasion. A number of my friends and associates have won at least one of each, so I have observed the minimal and fleeting impact it has on the quality of one's performance or, more important, one's personal growth. And I understand, from direct experience, the underlying insecurity that fuels a human being's desperate need to be acknowledged.

It doesn't matter that I was admired by my parents' friends as a bright, mature and always welcome child; I was also an only child and craved their attention, so I'd jump through flaming hoops to get it. (A shame, since many of them were under the influence much of the time, so who was I really impressing?)

Never mind that my teachers regularly lauded my creative approach to studies, my exemplary work habits and thoughtful behavior; the fact that I fooled them into thinking I'd spent hours on a project I'd waited the last minute to start haunts my creative process to this day. (Fellow only child Brian W recently reminded me that we latch-key kids are essentially trained to wait, an observation that explained a number of my poorer habits).

Lucky me, to have a larger-than-life father, whose high-profile, glamorous career as a musician afforded me a healthy dollop of reflected glory; no matter how much sincere encouragement he lavished on me to follow in his footsteps, it would take me years to understand that it was more important to create footprints of my own.

And pay no attention to the fact that I was a cheerleader, the female icon of high school popularity, in my junior and senior years; I was the token zaftig, the girl with the short, stocky legs for which my father periodically apologized (the fault of his genetics). The girl with the woman's breasts that made it impossible to accomplish the airy gymnastics my slender counterparts easily performed. I spent years in therapy dealing with body image issues because of the boobs that no brassiere could contain, bouncing to the merciless ridicule of the freshman boys (and the secret delight of the seniors -- and, I suspect, their dads). Perhaps the misplaced appreciation of my nubile nipples would have been easier to swallow if the Dallas Cheerleaders/Laker Girls precedent had already been set. As it was, it just made me inexpressibly sad. The inescapable infusion of raging hormones didn't help matters, either.

I have been sad for much of my life, though few knew it to be true. People pleaser that I was, I didn't want to let -- or bring -- anyone down, so I kept the secret; as long as there were enough available substances to imbibe, I could maintain the charade. I think I would have been a happier child, a more balanced teenager (however oxymoronic that sounds), a more satisfied -- and probably sober -- young adult, if I hadn't felt the need to live up to unrealistic expectations. If I had been gently guided to simply discover who I am, and enjoy that daily miracle.

But the spilt milk is mopped up, and the tears have been dried; just in time. Now I enjoy kicking propriety in the nuts, wantonly slaughtering sacred cows, fearless in the face of all that is holier-than-thou. Now my sadness is not for myself, but for those who are still trying to fit someone else's bill.

I'm sad for poor little rich Paris Hilton (special thanks to BSW for making me consider her when I rarely do), who apparently put the "casual" in casual sex with her blase encounter, captured on tape for pop culture vultures to devour and regurgitate. It's not her performance's availability to all eyes that makes me sad (although such aspirations inevitably raise questions of character); it's that she lacks the passion that sexual activity should evoke. I'm just saying, if you're going to have it, have it for all it's worth -- otherwise, it's worthless. I wonder what makes her so unwilling to let go. Maybe she's just afraid -- as so many of us are at one time or another -- to be alive.

Yeah, I know: NOW who's holier-than-thou?