You can't always get what you want

I'm trying to figure out why I'm afraid to ask people for what I want. As a child, I asked for everything, from a pony to a kid-car (like the General Lee from Dukes of Haz) to every toy in sight.

I was once campaigning hard for a puppy only to be given a baby brother. Really not the same thing. Five-year-olds are not equipped to understand the precious but dull life of a newborn.

Thank goodness that my parents didn't give me everything I asked for. I worry for the young people in this country who expect everything they ask for to be given to them without a price.

But, now that I am older and, we hope, a little more mature, I have to learn how to ask for what I want again. This time, what I want is not just about me, is not totally selfish.

So I'm learning by asking. And hearing "no" is okay. Hearing "yes" is exquisite.

These words are my own

While reading my previous post, I realized that I don't know what "defensive-wounds-the-dog" means at all. Except it means I should get more sleep, drink less coffee and proof before I publish. Maybe take a writing class.

My cup runneth over at the moment. I am praying to God for strange, little miracles and they are happening.

We are all so very blessed.

Celebrate good times come on!

How do you celebrate? With drinking? With a run of triumph around the building?

I like to do a happy dance. Nothing award- or stage-worthy. Nothing graceful for certain. But I like to bounce around with glee.

I'm having a happy moment right now, but only the dog is here to celebrate with me. And he does not appreciate my happy dance. In fact, it causes him to bark and attempt to bite me in the stomach. Which turns it into a defensive-wounds-the-dog dance.

So, the happy dance became a spinning happy dance so as to avoid stomach lacerations. But spinning and jumping around may be too much for my accident-prone body to handle, so I must take care not to do the fell-down-and-now-have-concussion dance.

Though that dance is pretty spectacular.

Skating away on the thin ice of a new day

The combination of my blog talking about the violence in Columbia, and reading Mr. Hellmann's blog about AIDS in Africa, I'm thinking of joyful things to blog about:

1. I just bought new snow boots that make me look like an extra in every Cold War spy movie ever made.

2. We found out our puppy has ten new brothers and sisters. And, no, none will be coming home with us.

3. Only six of the directories have pages from another church in them, which only proves how sad ours could have looked. Ouch!

4. I caught up with a college friend this afternoon and we were discussing how her 16-month-old has to sleep in the dining room until they finish his room. Sadly, a big-boy bed will not fit, so things will be difficult once sleep-overs start. I plan to donate to his therapy fund.

5. Bedtime. Bedtime is joyful.

All we are saying is give peace a chance.

I'm more than a little tired at the moment, so forgive me if this makes no sense.

I received an email from my friend working for peace in Columbia. Each email she sends is long, every paragraph more heart-breaking than the last. Our "war on terrorism" is taking its toll on too many third-world countries. We support the "terrorists" as they hunt down other "terrorists", who may just be pacifists working for the truth. At least, that's what I think is going on. My friend's Spanish is now stronger than her English, so there's a little to interpret in her meaning.

She asked us to think about how we ourselves support terrorism. I suppose I could look up the word "impeach", I could look for fair trade products, support programs that keep kids off drugs. There are thousands of concrete ways to do something that seems abstract. But it's not that abstract when I think that one of my favorite six-year-olds is from Columbia.

I'm sure he will one day wish to see his birthplace, maybe even do important work like my friend (though I would be so afraid for him, as I am for my friend). I just hope we can turn a few things around before his wish comes true.

Here is the poem I wrote for my friend many years ago:

Where I am there's a piece of you
That warms my heart and sees me through.

Where you are there's a piece of me
That warms your heart and sets you free.

When I look at the stars

My favorite thing in winter is coming home late at night to a crystal clear sky full of a million stars. Most of the time it's cloudy when I look up, but sometimes, like tonight, I can see the stars. I'm the crazy women standing in the middle of her yard looking up when it is frigid outside. But that's when the chaos of life makes the most sense.

It recently occurred to me that it really is the same sky since the beginning of the earth. Yes, there are stars that have since died and stars that have since been created, but, for the most part, it is the same. All figures of history, from Moses to Lincoln, from Joan of Arc to Eleanor Roosevelt, stood under the same sky I am standing under. I feel empowered, connected when I look at the stars. A little humbled as well.

I've been listening to Ms. Clarkson these days. Her song, Beautiful Disaster, pretty much sums up my dating/working experiences from college to three years ago. I'm a sucker for people who need help, especially when I really should run in the other direction...

Can't buy me love

I've been thinking a lot about sudden windfalls of cash. Since I am considered a lucky person, Punky wants me to buy lottery tickets whenever the amount is high enough. I refuse.

This morning, a cash donation was announced to the congregation. Instead of thinking of the amazing programming we could accomplish with this money, I assumed it would go for mortgages, and continued day-dreaming about someone leaving me a tidy sum of money (or winning $300 million without buying a ticket).

I would start with the obvious of paying my debt, my student loans, Punky's education. Buy a new house, rent a villa in Arizona for the rents, take my sister to Europe, get Jaxon into Madison. Be an artist for the rest of my life.

These are nice, comforting thoughts, but I am not a fan of the "free" handout. If I don't work hard on something, it is probably too flimsy to stand the test of time. On the other hand, I probably should be writing to our well-off relatives...

By the way, my creative baby, the directory, is finally out there in the universe, being loved by most. It is littered with mistakes, which I accepted would happen before I started it.

Besides, it's better than good, it's done!

Far from sleep

I had the sudden need for Tori. I forget about my friends Tori, Ani, Dar, Fiona. They got me through the hardest time of my life so listening to them brings back the anger, the fear, the paranoia. Everyone once in a while I go back to marinate in those feelings, remember to be thankful for life, grateful for friends, thrilled to no end that I found a man to love with every fiber of my being for the rest of my life.

I need Tori's "China" on occasion. I love thinking about the space between people. There's sitting very close to someone, touching even, who is mostly a stranger to you. This shouldn't be an issue, but my mind runs anyway. Is she/he uncomfortable? Am I? If I'm not, is that strange? Does that mean something?

I remember in college writing poetry about the electricity between people who aren't touching, when you yearn for someone so much you can feel it on every inch of skin close to him/her. Someone in my class did not understand what I meant, which made me sad for him.

Then there is the space of anger, of unsaid thoughts and feelings. It's easy to forget how large our country is. You can fly across it in a matter of hours, ship anything overnight, have a four-way conference call with both borders and coasts. But taking into consideration the anger, the silent voices of poverty, the clashing points of view, even the dramatic difference in weather, and our country is suddenly enormous.

The beauty of this space is that one voice can shorten it. Because one voice is never alone for long.

Baby it's cold outside

As a way to distract my overactive mind, I sometimes pretend I am being interviewed. Not by an particular publication, just randomly asked questions. In my amazingly articulate answers, I didn't fabricate anything, just made my life very interesting. I don't think I have ever been interviewed for real.

Well, except for the teenager asking me questions, claiming I provoke her. I wouldn't be surprised if she had a little notebook under the table to write it all down.

She wants to know about Punky. She wants to know about my profession (since I own my own business, she does not believe me when I say I have a Master's). She stopped just short of the one question EVERYONE gets to ask me: When are we going to make babies!!?? Oy.

I have been thinking about this provoking thing. I wish I could share with her the biggest lesson I have learned, perhaps giving her insight into my crazy ways:

You must take risks. Understand that you will run into obstacles but that you are strong enough (and have enough resources) to get yourself out of any problems. Calculate your risks beforehand but don't suspend yourself in indecision.

But, I can't say that, as her mother would be a smidge unhappy with me. So I will continue to be my quiet, provoking self.

What risk are you going to take?

Not missing you anymore

I think I figured it out. I was thinking yesterday about someone I had not heard from in a long time, someone who should be going crazy trying to communicate with me. A few hours later she called. We don't always have great conversations, but this one was wonderful.

Yesterday Punky decided he wanted another golden fur ball from a rescue group. While my heart breaks for these animals, the idea of twice as much fur coating every square inch of my house gives me a headache. 90 pounds of Nuschler is quite enough for me at the moment.

I'm reading Peace like a River by Leif Enger and loving it. The narrative is beautiful and honest. It takes place in cold-weather Minnesota, so it relates to my need to crawl under blankets all the day long.

Stay warm, friends!

Miss you

In an earlier blog, I talked about listening to Everything but the girl on the radio. Just prior to that it had taken a turn on my headphones. I miss you like the deserts miss the rain. Today, while wandering into Lisa's store, I heard it again.

I don't know how much I believe in signs, but I like to think that they are real. I like to think that we are given lots of directions and that it is our own busy-ness that causes us not to listen.

So, what exactly am I missing? Is this a sign to listen more in general? Is that just getting my attention primed for a bigger message?

A few weeks ago, someone who has known me most of my life thought I was someone else and would not be convinced otherwise. Now they have found a brain tumor. I suppose there are some signs we simply refuse to read.

On a lighter note, it's Valentine's day, so Punky and I went to our favorite pizzeria in Souptown. We marveled at the paper towel holders on each table and the tiny paper plate and cheap plastic forks we were given. When we tried to pay with debit, we were told that they only took cash or check. If we couldn't pay either way, we could hit a nearby atm or leave our name and number and come back tomorrow to pay.

Yes folks, we live in a town that trusting. Well, across a bridge from a town that trusting...

Yoga Dog

My work-out routine consists of jogging (barefoot on a yoga mat in my livingroom), then crunches etc, then a little yoga. I finish by laying on my back on the floor with my palms open to the ceiling, which is supposed to mean I am prepared for what the universe has to give me that day. On most days, the universe sends me a puppy to lick my hands and feet- a sweaty-Sara buffet.

Lately, however, the story is different.

Normally he stays away until I am done moving around, an ideal target, and starts with the vigorous licking. The last two times, however, he has instead joined me in my dormant state and then, after a respectable time, started the licking.

Does this mean my dog does yoga?

They were playing Everything but the Girl on the radio this evening. I miss you like the deserts miss the rain. Strange words for a song you can rave to...

Oh, and Happy Birthday Matty! You are the greatest kid brother a middle sister could ever hope to torment.

A funny thing happened on the way to Fargo

Namely, I needed to figure out an 80's sitcom theme song played by the Simpson's Friday night. Perfect Strangers, while not my favorite, does have a fine theme. And I must be getting old because I was unable to remember the tune for more than five minutes at a time until I had recalled it about five times. Started doing Sudoku so as to work the side of my brain not preoccupied with my to do list (Why am I always going to the post office?).

I also saw a look-alike of my scary, ex-boyfriend/college stalker at a mall out there. After silently flipping out and then reasoning with myself that it wasn't him, I tried not to go into self-defense mode. I know, I know. Professional help...

I'm listening to Dido. I'm apparently craving chic music. Slightly angry, melodic chic music.

My question: Why do people live in Fargo? (If you love Fargo, don't be mad, just explain.)

I finally did it!

I hereby jump on the bandwagon.

Since Becca does the movie thing, I will share the music in my life. I've been listening to Aimee Mann lately. This says more about my mood than tastes. I haven't listened to her in a while, but love the funk she puts me in. You think you are hearing a sweet love song until she throws down her anger in violent chords and lyric.

I will also talk about the Nuschler, my two-year-old Golden Recliner. (I reserve the term "retriever" for an animal capable of doing so). He is about 90 pounds and deathly afraid of laundry baskets. And cardboard boxes. And brooms. All of which he could destroy in seconds. Beautiful irony.

What else do you want to know?