Warmth...
~ Smells that remind you of people you love.

~ Listening to the rain fall.

~ Curling up under a blanket and feeling peaceful.

I am tired of words.

They are a damned nuisance. And a threat.

I grow weary of the ability of words to maim. To dismember. The way words may wound so swiftly, but so deeply.

Silence may be an ideal virtue to strive for...

I am tired of words. Their neccesary evil that so nefariously winds its way into our lives.

Let then my words be quick, for why should I engage their mercenary services to tell of my distaste.

I am tired of words. Weary. Worn. Pressed sore by them.

I am tired.

Infallible Logic
Then there was the Christmas that Mom wanted to decorate two trees, one upstairs and one downstairs. We were living in Houston, and I was probably four or five.
"Do you want to decorate a tree upstairs too?" my Mother asked me.

And the wheels started turning for me. If, according to previous experience, presents appeared under the tree on Christmas morning, then would not two trees yield two sets of presents?

"Yes," I said, picturing two present-unwrapping-extravaganzas on that merry morn. "We should decorate two trees."

It was a slightly disappointing Christmas, when checking first the tree upstairs, I found not the packages I expected, but just some lint and tinsel under the tree.

This was my first inclination that 1+1 might not always equal the anticipated result. Perhaps this is the beginning of my loathesome relationship with mathematics.

Tradition
Each year as we near the end of the unwrapping, my Mom gets a slightly puzzled look on her face.

"Hmm...Now you should have had one more something," she says as she hops up to look in her usual hiding places.

Off to her bedroom to check under her bed, back to the guest room to check the closet, her nightgown and slippers swishing with a sense of urgency. She invariably returns, only to say, "Well, you did have something else, but I can't remember where I hid it."

This year she really topped herself. She lost a present she bought for herself.
"Where do you hide a present from yourself?" my Dad asked increduously.
"I don't know" she said.

We shook our heads and started to laugh. That great Alsup laugh that I happen to think is one of our better traits. We laughed until tears ran down our faces. How do you manage to lose something that you bought yourself?

It was the greatest of all Mom-loses-a-Christmas-present moments.

Anyone, Anyone?
Today I was forced out of bed at 8:30 because my dog, Pepe, was frantic to have Christmas. Yes, we get him presents. And I promise you, this dog knows Christmas. He knows that we will let him outside, and place his presents in his chair. (Yes his chair. It's a wing-back red leather number that no one ever sat until Pepe appropriated it for his own purposes.)

Come on, I know there have got to be other people that give their pets presents.

I have never seen an animal like to get presents more than that dog. Pepe is a character, and that's probably a good thing, because being a character with plenty of quirks and eccentricities is the only sure way to fit into my family.

Why...
is it my basic nature to not go to sleep like a reasonable person?
I just stay up, and eventually end up posting dumb questions about sleeping habits on my blog.
I really like sleep a lot, and display ample inclination to sleep at inappropriate times, i.e. in the middle of the afternoon, in class, when I have large amounts of school-related reading to do.
(On a sidenote: if you hand me a dry-as-dust book about ocean currents but tell me to read it at my leisure and only if I enjoy it, I will most likely read it in a week, even staying up late to do so. But if you hand me any midly entertaining book and call it school the first paragraph will put me to sleep, guranteed.)
Most of the time though, even when class is in session, I have to work really hard to put myself to sleep. I'd have no idea why? I just want to be one of those people who lays down, and is asleep before their head hits the pillow.

I'm miffed...
that I've broken my, "I've never broken a bone record" -- One stupid rib, and 20 years of work toward snobbily having all my bones intact goes down the drain. I don't even get a cast for people to sign -- and I feel awkward about asking them to sign my rib cage. So really there's no benefit to it. Break an appendage, get a cast in a fun neon color; break a rib, get nada, except lots of tylenol and slower movement that people can't attribute a reason to (see, not only do casts serve as portable get-well cards, they also serve as important visual cues, "Ah, that person is in a cast, that must be the reason that they are moving slower than molasses.")

All right...
Enough mindless blathering, I'm going to close my eyes now, but probably won't go to sleep, because that would be to sensible. No, I'll just contemplate the completely mind-numbing prattle I just posted on my blog.

Kid's drawing
This is my first blog-entry in over a week. Mostly because at this time last week I was in a bed at St. Luke's Hospital in Chesterfield, Missouri.

Two of my dearest friends and I were in a car-wreck early last Saturday morning. And so all week, I've wondered what to write in this blog. My inclination was to lean towards the comic. And trust me, a weekend of Sara on lots of medication, "high as a kite" as one of my friends put it, lends itself amply to comedic purposes.

I have really beautiful people in my life. Truly, beautiful people in my life. Melissa, Joanna, and I spent a weekend in the hospital and the amount of support we received from our friends and family scattered throughout several different places was astounding.

What do I write?

I think that has been the question for the three of us that got out of a 1988 Honda Accord early last Saturday. Even though Mel, Jo, and I went through the weekend together, I'm quite sure we came away from it with different perceptions. So what follows is part of what's being going through my head for the past week.

There's so many different aspects of these weekend that I'm sure I'll be picking a part for a while to come. But the one that rings truest is the friendship that carried three college kids through a weekend stranded in an unfamiliar place.

I have now spent two weekends of my life in hospitals because of car accidents. The first one was with my brother after his wreck, and the second was just this last weekend with me in the role of patient.

Having been now on both sides of the hospital bed, as it were, I think the role of patient is decidely easier. You have a lot of drugs, you're not all that aware of your surroundings, and if you're lucky you're nurses are nice and don't jostle you too much.

Melissa and Joanna had the decidely more difficult part of being lucid and alert for most of the weekend (aside from the times when Mel was "feeling really good" -- due to large amounts of codine).

They were nursing their own injuries, and trying to sort out their emotions, but they stayed by my side the entire weekend. They brushed my hair, helped me eat, and held my hand. They showed me amazing love, compassion, and gentleness. And courage. Much more courage than I typically possess.

In short, I was blown away by their character this weekend. Not that I had any doubts before...I've always known them to be amazing. I know that they got me through the weekend. And I would like to think that even in my purple haze, I was somewhat of encouragement to them. (I do remember Jo crying at one point, Mel was asleep due to aforementioned codine, and Jo was handling the phone. She was sitting on my bed faced away from me, and I could tell that she was crying. At the time I thought I was actually not loopy, and I remember patting her arm, and telling her "It's okay, don't cry, Jo." -- only not that cohesively. And at the time, I thought I was being pretty comforting -- I was happy to return some of the comfort that I gotten from them. Now it just kind of makes me chuckle, because I really don't think I managed to be all that helpful and/or comforting, just really loopy.)

There's not a whole lot of my time in the hospital that I remember very clearly. But I know that the presence of these two friends had an unbelivably calming and quieting effect on me. There were several times that I looked over my hospital bed simply to assure myself that they were still there. And once assured that they were indeed in arms reach, I would lay back calmer and able to rest. That's what I remember, more than anything about my weekend in a hospital bed. How peaceful and good Mel and Jo made me feel just by being there. By being willing to help me get up, or lay down. By moving my pillows, or holding my hand. The feigned excitement when the nurses brought me a clear liquid diet, and the endless patience. The amazing patience they both had. Getting up to get me water, or ice, or juice, or move pillows, or hold my hand because I asked them to.

I could go on...I thank God for them. Oddly enough, before the car-wreck, I was planning a blog entry on these two girls. Simply because of the support they have always shown me. I'm so thankful for it.

My words are poor. And I wish they were better. I wish they were prettier or more eloquent. Because as they are now they can't possibly convey what my friends mean to me. It's a bit like when you're a little kid and the best you can manage is a few shaky crayon lines that try to represent your reality on a crumpled bit of paper. The little kid may think it's a masterfully done work, a perfect explanation for his surrounding world. But everyone else who sees it requires a small explanation for the shapeless lines of wax on the page.

And so here is the heart of what I'm trying to say:
If you have the privelige of knowing Mel and Jo than you should count your blessings. Because to know them is to know strength, tenderness, fortitude, and gentleness. I've never understood why women are thought to be the weaker sex.
These girls prove that untrue daily. They are two of the strongest women I know.

I love them dearly. I'm so very blessed to have them in my life.

I'm back
Well, after a week of being too sick to much of anything, I'm finally on my way to recovery.
And there was much rejoicing!!
I realized that
~I really hate being sick
~I turn into a big grumpy monster when I'm sick
~Going to the doctor is not really that bad of an idea

Major thanks to all my friends who called, or came by, and generally put up with me being grouchy and gross!! Also thanks to a certain person who suggested going to Student Health -- You were right, what else can I say.

Why Sara isn't ruler of the universe
I know that it may come as a shock, but I really don't have any control over this world or human beings. Mostly because if I were running the world things would be all in fuss.

Earlier this week I stopped in at the bookstore after a particularly cold jaunt to 9th street video.
"Joanna," I said, "I think that people should have removable ears. That way you could just take them off and stick them in your pockets when it was cold, and warm them up in the microwave when you got home."

Now I had been pondering that idea all day, and it seemed flawless to me. But my sage friend quickly pointed out the problem.

"I think we would have a lot of damaged ears," said Joanna.

There you go. That's probably why our ears are attached to our heads, if they weren't then people would lose them, or drop them, or all manner of other unpleasent things.

What do you write when you know that no matter what words you choose or how you string them together there is no way that you can approach conveying what you actually feel or perceive?

It is not as though there are not words enough to paint an experience. No. The weakness lies within the writer. For how can someone adequately write how beautiful and painful life manages to be all in the same moment?

Maybe the goal of the writer is not to record, with acute accuracy, all the various facets of life. Each writer sets thought to paper from their own experience and understanding, trying to communicate a sameness of experience to an unknown reader.

Maybe the best anyone one can do is to hope that the readers have had some experience with those carefully crafted ideas.

It’s whistling in the dark and waiting for an answer. Playing a solo, waiting for someone in the audience to lean forward and talk back.

Sometimes there is no greater meaning than that something is beautiful. That beauty (and truth, to acknowledge Keats) is not always approachable or inviting. It is fearful, and revered. It is warmth and security. It is not completely understandable, or even explainable. Yet man feels compelled to try to capture beauty, or truth, or whatever fact he knows of existence in creativity.

Artists are compelled to create.

Humans are compelled to create.
To understand in creating that which we cannot fully define within ourselves.

What do you write when you know that you are not adequate to the task?

What words do you write to explain what without words your heart knows?

These are the questions which stop my words before they touch paper, before they have time to swim around a bit, rearranging themselves in cohesive bonds.

These are the questions that I strain against when…

I want to write about how playing music is like flying. The plane takes off and there is a moment when your body is pushed into the seat and your insides drop, and you are conscious of your suspension above the stable earth. When you are playing with a band, and everything is grooving hard, there is a moment that comes when you are no longer aware of yourself. There is only the music and the steady advancement of time and the band’s voice trying to understand itself and preaching an urgent idea to the audience.


Questions that give me pause when…

I want to tell someone how beautiful it feels when you have the calmness of heart to know that whatever may present itself you will glide gracefully through, and come out the stronger for it. For that is what my heart told me Tuesday night as I walked in Columbia at midnight. The low hanging clouds caught all of the city’s lights and held them reflected in the water crystals and everything was close in, secure. And I knew that here was life, ready for me to jump in with both feet. Not to dabble toes but to immerse myself completely. A surety that my life would (or could, possibly could) be lived well, which in the end, is all I ask. I will count my life successful if I am able to say that I lived it well, loving those around me, embracing opportunities, experiencing things without holding back, and fighting through the painful moments that come when one loves greatly and lives greatly. And maybe loving greatly and living greatly are one in the same.

Questions that stay my hand in half-a-dozen other situations.

As a writer I may never be successful.
Maybe I will earn a living by writing the social column for a newspaper in Ponca City, Oklahoma. And I do not know whether that would be failing or not. I do know it would fall woefully short of my hopes.

Still, I am compelled. Driven to sling ink against fiber and hope for the best. Pushed to choose words, and rearrange till things look close to level.

I hesitate to write this next bit. But when I write, it is for, and maybe because of, the people I love. When I sit down, it is with them in mind. Their laughter, ambitions, sorrows, fears, their manner in the way that they tackle life. Everyday those people, whether near or far, show me what it means to live greatly. They are patient people, these teachers who have taken my hand and pushed me beyond myself.

In some way I feel that trying to create something is the best I can offer these people who so generously let me share in their lives. That my striving towards beauty, however poor and patched together my words may be, will thank them for the truth they have shared.

What do I write and how?

I hope that someday, I will find the words that I am seeking.

Rise and Shine
This morning I hit my snooze forty-one and a half bazillion times.
Good: Feeling well rested.
Bad: Feeling like I'm two hours behind on my day -- well forget that, I'll just pretend like I meant to wake up at 9:00 instead of 7:00.

Fact
Who has the best, most amazing friends in the world? It's me, It's me! Oh, yeah, it's me!

When is the Jazz Concert?
The MU Jazz bands will be performing at 8:00 p.m. tonight in Stotler Lounge (Memorial Union).
It will be an interesting concert considering that all of the musicians just had a week off of rehersals.

Do a dance, do a dance, it's concert day! I really dig performing!

There will be two guest performers, Dr. Steve Bottom on trumpet, and Lecolian Washington (the bassoon professor) on vocals. Stop, I know what you're saying, "A bassoon prof. doing jazz vocals -- what a joke?" Really? Come see then.
Mr. Washington is one bad funk singer -- for real, ain't no lie.

And last but not least, I will be playing clarinet on one of the songs.
Reasons I'm excited about playing that primitive hunk of wood:
~ In the song the lead for the band is in the clarinet, and as a tenor play I never get a chance to play lead.
~ It's a historical piece, and having the four saxes with clarinet lead is a very historical, old big band sound.
~ Playing clarinet makes me think I'm a better sax player -- jigga what?
~ And well, I kind of like playing the darn thing. I know, I used to complain a lot when I had to play clarinet, but it's growing on me.

Right. Going to start my day now.

"But our fish said, "No! No!
Make that cat go away!
Tell that Cat in the Hat
You do NOT want to play." ~ The Cat in the Hat, Dr. Seuss

So I have some issues.
By now we've all seen the advertising for the monstrosity that is "The Cat in the Hat" movie. The New York Times panned it, as did the Dallas Morning News.

Beware gentle friends, there is a book that has come out to promote the film, and it is titled something like, "Dr. Seuss' Cat in the Hat, the Movie." This is not in fact the well known children's book, but a mockery of all things Seussian. Missing are the colorful, witty rhymes of the good doctor, and in their place is the rather drippy plot of the movie.

Personally, I find the image of Mike Myers in a furry cat costume rather frightening. But maybe that's just me.

My Mom is leading a full fledged boycott of all things related to the movie, which she terms a "sacrilege to children's literature" and I quite agree.

Further sacrilege
Did anyone else ever read Cheaper by the Dozen by Frank Gilbreth?

It is a true story of the Gilbreth family. Mr. and Mrs. Gilbreth were motion study experts, well known in their field, who also happened to have 12 children.

It is a classic, and one of my favorite books. Every time I read it, it makes me laugh so hard I cry.

My school had parents who volunteered to come in and read to the elementary school classes. For the first half of sixth grade, my entire class eagerly waited for Thursday afternoons when Mrs. Sheetz would come and read to us. She read us Cheaper by the Dozen, and we were thoroughly caught up with the Gilbreth family. Our teacher even started using phrases from the book, saying "That is Eskimo," when one of us stepped out of line. The ultimate threat to us was, "If you don't behave, Mrs. Sheetz won't come." Oh, that really got us. When she said that, we all went ape, going so far as to kick classmates under desks if they looked cross-eyed.

This Christmas, there is a movie coming out with Steve Martin and Bonnie Hunt entitled "Cheaper by the Dozen". But is not the classic tale set in the 1920's. No, it is simply borrowing the title and none of the story. While I really like both Steve Martin and Bonnie Hunt, the public would be better served if the movie were not named after the book. They have no similarity past the title. It would be nicer if it were called "Funny movie in which Steve and Bonnie play the parents of 12 children set in modern day America."

I just find it disappointing. Why would you use the title of a perfectly nice story?

Can Hollywood please stop trampling on good books? Please? Anyone?

Sweet Stuff
My Dad asked my Mom to look for a picture of my brother taken on their vacation to South Dakota.

And so my Mom has been digging through picture envelopes and picture albums, which is usually a task that no one but me enjoys.

So I sat down with her and we looked at pictures.

Pictures of her and her chums in Johnston Hall goofing around and being generally college. Shots of the Hefflinger clan turned out in their Easter Sunday best.

Pictures of my Dad as a little kid with a bucket on his head and pictures of him catching a fish. Pictures of him playing twister. And oddly enough, a picture of him wearing a woman's robe -- yeah, I didn't ask questions.

Anyway, I realized a couple of things while my Mom and I were looking at pictures:
~ I come from a family a good-looking people, both sides. Everyone is just attractive, and considering that both of my parents have several siblings, that's fairly impressive.

~ My brother looks like a girl in most of his toddler pictures because our parents didn't want to cut off his red curls. Shoulder length red curls, folks. My brother was a pretty, pretty princess in purple striped pants.

I realized tonight as I saw pictures of me and various family members that from the time I was born I have been surrounded by people who have loved me greatly. Grandparents that were unbelivably patient and caring, and who took time to read to me, or take me to the zoo, or let me drive the truck. A brother that has always loved me, sitting through dance recitals and soccer games, and who drove across Houston from a New Year's Eve Party so that he could be with me at midnight to beat the pie pans.

Parents who did their best to see that I didn't want for anything. Who have taught me how to be generous and gracious. Who have taught me the meaning of a promise and the art of telling a story. Two people that laugh about better than anyone I know.

It's all in the pictures. I'm quite fortunate really. And I am thankful.

If it ain't baroque, it must be...
Bach's a jazzer. Yeah. Curly wig aside, he's a jazzer. (Not to mention the fact that Bach delivered the equal temperment tuning of music that we still use today)
I'm at my piano today just reading through a Bach prelude and there's this beautiful chord progression, D7, pedal D, leading to G7, still over pedal D, GMaj7, back to G7, and it's amazing.
Here's Bach, coming shortly after the church (yep, the Catholic one) stopped telling composers what they could or couldn't write. And he's just playing with harmonies willy-nilly.
When you take in the fact that quite a lot of Baroque music was originally improvisatory...well it blows your mind.
A bunch of white guys, composing primarily for the church or wealthy patrons, soloing over chord progressions that don't really get used all that much until you hit the brothels of late 19th Century New Orleans.
Yeah. Curly wig aside, Bach's a jazzer.

And speaking of brothels
Jazz, one of the few art forms that American's may claim as truly their own, is now played in the finest concert halls in the nation. The music is supported by national endowments, and is taught in several school music programs.
Over the summer I heard the Count Basie Big Band play in the Meyerson Symphony Center in Dallas. The band was dressed in tuxedo's and the audience was full of blue-haired ladies dressed to the nines.
And to think that 80 years ago Count Basie was playing in a seedy bar on 18th street in Kansas City.
Louis Armstrong learned to play in the red-light district of New Orleans, was addicted to laxatives and marijuana.
Miles Davis was from East St. Louis, oh yeah, he had a couple of nasty addictions to, but he kicked them eventually.
Basie's predecessor, Benny Moten, disappeared under mysterious circumstances.
The term "jazz" itself has numerous connotations, overtones, and innuendos.
This music whose history is littered with prostitutes, drugs, bad blood, street fights, poverty, and discrimination is played in the most gorgeous music halls in all the world.
And it makes me chuckle. That this music, with so many skeltons in the closet, is held up as the art form that it's creators always intended for it to be. That little blue-haired old ladies, with carefully coiffed bouffants, and finely manicured fingernails, sit quietly in plushly upholstered seats attending to the voices of those artists on stage who owe their craft to all night jam sessions in greasy joints on the wrong side of the tracks.

The Best Quiz Ever
So my friend, Melissa, is amazing -- click here to take the quiz she came up with -- It's the post from Monday, November 17.
It's an interesting insight into who I hang out with -- crazy, yes, but definitely adorable.
"Walkie Talkie Girls"-- you gals make me happy in about five million different ways.

"I want to know, do I stay or do I go,
and maybe try another time
And do I really have a hand
in my forgetting?" ~ The Fairest of the Seasons, Nico

"I never seen you looking so bad my funky one.
You tell me that your superfine mind has come undone
Any major dude with half a heart surely will tell you, my friend,
Any minor world that breaks apart falls together again.
When the demon is at your door
In the morning it won't be there no more." ~ Any Major Dude, Steely Dan

Just some songs that I've been listening to lately.

A Foggy Day and Steely Dan
The group of friends I had in high-school was close. We were all in band, all of us were pretty serious musicians, and we all listened to mostly the same music. We went through phases in our musical tastes, and we hit Steely Dan as juniors and seniors at FBA.

That was the year that the Lady Saints basketball team lost the semi-final game in the last minutes after a missed free throw, which should have been re-shot. The entire gym was silent, and just as our girl went up for the shot an opposing fan blew an air-horn which was specifically prohibited by the rules.

The clock ran out, and the FBA fans just stood there.

In a school that small, everyone feels quite keenly connected to the ups and downs of the teams. For the seniors, it had been the last chance at that sweetly fleeting glory that is high-school competition. But everyone had wanted that banner proclaiming FBA as the reigning state champions. It was a tangible outcome of effort, and something that would proclaim your success long after you had left the school's hallways.

The band had, of course, traveled to the game. As the situation became more desperate the usual chatter and laughter that went on in the stands was suspended as we focused all of our attention on the battle taking place below. We willed the ball to slip cleanly into the baskets, we cheered and yelled for the girls that we had watched over the course of the season and whom we had known since childhood.

The band loaded up the instruments and left the gym. No one talked, and we glared at everyone from hooded eyes.
As we got outside, one of the trumpet players, an eighth grader who played in the band, lost it and unleashed on a sophomore trumpet player. Slugged him hard enough to make him cry.

The upperclassmen, myself included, separated the two of them while chastising both. "What were you thinking, you don't just lose your temper like that."

But secretly we cheered the eigth grader on. We'd all been wanting to pop this other kid for quite sometime, and we're pleased that someone had done the job. Middle schoolers could get away with that stuff much more easily than juniors or seniors who were supposed to know better.

My mom drove Heather and I back to Dallas after the game. This I remember clearly: it was a damp and grainy sky, and we sat in the back of the car listening to Steely Dan, and looking at each other, thinking about being a game away from state and losing to a team from Houston, and feeling that Waco was a pit of a town, even if it did have Baylor and Dr. Pepper.

Any Major Dude, was definitely one of my favorite songs on the CD. I deemed it deep in the way only a 16 year old can. I played the song for Heather, explaining that the lyrics, were "just, really good, you know." She agreed. We were juniors and thought we knew just about everything there was to know. We were smarter than all our teachers, and most adults. Not being passionate at your life or beliefs was the most contemptible offense we could imagine. We gave no quarter to those who had shown no zeal for what they did in their careers, or in what they believed of the world.

All that talk of worlds falling apart and together -- we wallowed in it. Really profound. Far out. Oh yeah, we'd seen things fall apart, minds come undone, we knew what was out there. We were 16, living in the suburbs of Dallas, attending a private religious school, and planning for college. Yeah, we had a lot of worldly experience. But being a teenager is a science of extremes. You know or you don't, you can or you can't, you win or you lose. For us, the happy medium was to be avoided at all costs.

Despite our narrow perspective, we knew that things fell apart, but both us believed that they really did fall back eventually.

It's something that I think about on days that are misty gray and cold.

Columbia is five years and several thousand miles from that day when we lost, and Jacob hit William, and our band was suffering under a band director we called "The Flem," and our friend Jack had left us to move to Kansas City. Everything that happened seemed to affect us so greatly -- everything that happened seemed huge.

Since then I've seen minor worlds, and a couple of major ones implode in shimmering catastrophy. Not to imply that I'm any more experieced than I was at 16. I'm only slightly wiser than I was then, and I know a significantly lesser amount then I did in high-school.

The only difference is that now I truly question whether those worlds ever do fall together again in any coherent manner.

Fairy Tale, Schmairy Tale
As a child I was partial towards Snow White -- she was so good and kind, and so conscientious of good hygiene habits always making the dwarfs wash their hands. I enjoyed Cinderella as well, but lets face it, she wasn't nearly as pretty as Snow White. And Cinderella took a lot of crap from her human companions -- Snow White didn't take no guff from anyone.

Lately...
In the past couple of days, I've felt a strange kinship towards Cinderella. Just this morning I woke up and found that there were several small rodents gathered around my bed, and two bluejays had flown in to fix my hair. Three small rabbits were laying out my clothes for the day, and outside my door, residents could be heard moving around.
From out of no where an orchestra started to play, and we broke in to song,
"RCPA, RCPA, night and day, it's RCPA,
flip the breaker, check my homework,
by the way my roommate hates me"

"Oh, Sara" said the smallest mouse, "Will you go to the grand ball tonight?"
"Alas my furry friend" said I, "I must stay here, for if I go, I will surely face dire consequences. How I do love the idea though, to step out of these rags, do my nails and hair up, and be the belle of the ball. Drat to those watchful relatives, who keep me chained in my tower bedroom."
"Darling Sara" twittered a bluejay, "Were you to go, you would most certainly be the most beautiful and gracious lady in all the land. Perhaps some goodness will happen to you and you will be able to go afterall." The rest of the furry contingent nodded their heads in eager agreement.
"Dear friends, you are too kind" I said, blushingly "I do so appreciate your lovely words, but sometimes life is more like John Steinbeck than a Disney fairy tail. There will be no fairy godmother to pat my head and put me in a stunning dress. Most favored mice, you will not be turned into horses to draw my coach. Dear friends, it's past Halloween, there are no pumpkins to be found and glass slippers are, quite frankly, impractical."

My friendly animals hung their heads in sadness, and I offered a hankerchief to one of the rabbits.
"Never fear - I'm sure we will pass an enjoyable evening all the same, and well, we just won't think about how much fun all the people in the land will be having at the grand ball tonight. We'll not think of it at all. Or maybe we'll think of it tomorrow, after all tomorrow is another day."

One of those days...
Today was the best day that I've had in the past several, for a variety of reasons:
~ A great saxophone lesson with Moe.
~ Going to Russian club with Joanna -- I'm a sucker for languages. I love to learn, and the way that people communicate is fascinating to me. I learned a lot about Russian tonight, and had a lot of fun asking how to say different things! I'm quite glad that Jo let me tag along. Pravda!

~ But the absolute best moment of my entire day (and actually the best moment of the past 4 or 5 days) was seeing Scott. We had been trying to catch each other all day, so this evening when Sam told me that Scott was on the first floor, I ran downstairs. When I saw him at the end of the hall I ran pell-mell through a crowd of several people to get to him, and when I got there we threw our arms around each other. We just stood there as people moved around us, just holding each other and crying (well, I was doing most of the crying). There aren't enough words to describe how happy I was to see him, and just hold on to him and reassure myself that he was really there and okay. We smiled and cried and laughed, and stood there, in the center of the hallway, being thankful for each other.

A cup of Joe
I've had a lot of cups of coffee over the course of my life, and several of them are attached to my most favorite memories.
I must have been 10 or 11 when I had my first cup of coffee. My family was driving back to Dallas from Barnhart, Missouri, and my Grandma Alsup was with us (I think this must have been the same trip that we stopped at the Precious Moments headquarters in Carthage, Missouri -- but that's another story). Anyway, my Grandma and I shared a hotel room in Muskogee, Oklahoma, and when we got up in the morning Grandma made coffee. It was the coffee that is always in hotel rooms -- you know it's going to be bad, and it has some name like, "Company Best" or "Gourmet Goodness." Grandma made it, and just poured me a cup, as though it were a perfectly normal thing to do -- doesn't every 10-year old drink coffee. She didn't offer me cream or sugar, and if she had, I wouldn't have taken it -- our family adage is, "If you're going to drink coffee, drink it black."
Then there was the first time that I went to Starbucks in eighth grade -- coffee was a very "high-school band" thing to do. Two of my friends and I played in the high school bands our eighth grade year. Of course we were quite pleased the first time we went to Starbucks with the jazz band. Coffee was something that the big cool kids, like Clint and Ruth drank. Going to Starbucks was the equivalent of being welcomed into the band with open arms.
There was the coffee in Alaska, when the set-up crew went out to dinner and we had espresso from demitasse cups. There was the Hawaiian coffee that Anna and I drank as we talked about our freshman year at college and how good it was to be back home in Texas. There have been many cups of coffee (usually with a piece of cheesecake) between Clint and I, accompanied by conversations. There was the cup of coffee I had in Springfield with Joe, which was most assuredly the best memory I have of that weekend. And of course, there are the many pots of coffee that my parents and I have shared while shooting the breeze around our kitchen table.
Tonight some of us went to the Broadway Diner and over several refills, talked about rural Missouri with Lou, the cook, who also coaches high school football and wrestling at a Military Academy in Boonville. And I guess that's what I like most about a cup of coffee -- you can just sit there and shoot the breeze, about nothing in particular, with people that you've never met before. It is a comfortable thing to talk with someone over a cup of coffee. A pleasant, and a simple thing.

Huzzah, Purple, Huzzah
For those of you who were worried, and I was...
FARC will have a magazine to publish this semester!!
And there was much rejoicing!! Much, much rejoicing!!

When we had to extend the deadline by two weeks, I was concerned.
When we went through the initial review process and a good deal of the submissions were filled with icky teenage angst and little literary value, I was worried.

But we got done with the review process tonight, and let me tell you, we are going to have a magazine! We got 34 submissions, and 19 of them scored a 7 or higher in the review process. We also got some of the best artwork and photography that I've seen submitted to Purple.
Sure there's some weepy teenage, first love type poetry -- but I think that we're going to have a magazine of which to be proud.

I am one happy girl right now.

In the gym...
When you were in middle school, did you you ever just sit in the bleachers of the gym and watch the basketball team practice? Boys trying desperately to impress the girls with their dashing athletic moves.
Today, I experienced the same thing in front of the Dance Dance Revolution machine in Brady Commons.
A certain boy who is trying to win Joanna's affection danced away while Joanna and I acted like we were in seventh grade.
Acting like we were in middle school went something like this:
"Ooo, he's trying to impress you, Jo" at which point Jo bashes me, I bash her back, and then we look at the boy and giggle.
Repeat this a number of times, and you end up with how Joanna and I spent our lunch hour.

It's my book, darn it!
I managed to spend an hour today in the bookstore, picking out cards and making an impulse buy.
I happened to walk by the paperback fiction section on my way to purchase the cards, when I saw The Brother's Karamozov and since I had just had a conversation about this book, I stopped. This was my first mistake.
I started to move away, telling myself, "Sara, you're already in the middle of a couple of books -- you don't need a thick Russian novel."
But then I picked up the Penguin Classic Edition. This was my second mistake.
When you pick the book up, you start to feel possesive of it. "Hello book, oh how nice and heavy you feel in my hand, what? you're looking for a loving home -- why of course, I can take you home."
After telling myself that I didn't need the book, I put it down and walked away. But I couldn't just leave my book there -- I had held it and looked at the introduction, it was mine.
And so I left the book store the proud owner of a rather thick Russian novel.
If anyone sees me in a bookstore, could they please escort me out of the store -- that would be great!

Just in case you were curious...
Here is a rather interesting study regarding what terms the different regions of the country use to refer to carbonated beverages

Of course we all know that just calling everything coke is the correct way to do things -- Please note where Texas stands in this debate.
Not that everything Texas does is right...wait a second... it's Texas, it must be right.

Things that are obnoxious at 8:50 in the morning
Let's try the guy that is using a leaf blower directly under my window. For the love, people, it's 8:50 in the a.m. I'm already up, so it's not like the leaf blower sucked precious minutes of slumber from me, but all the same, I believe mornings should be quiet.
For real.
Other Obnoxious Things
The fact that I have two tests today -bleh!
The fact that I don't care how mountains form, I just want to get the test over with!
The fact that I got about three hours of sleep due to studying for aforementioned Geology test, and have yet to study for my J 200 test!
And the most obnoxious thing:
I've been drinking instant coffee -- this is not the answer. There may be a hint that it is meant to be coffee, but in the end, instant is just an imposter. It's like buying Dr. Thunder instead of Dr. Pepper -- it just doesn't make the grade. But I will probably continue drinking it, which is the most shameful thing of all.

You ever get to feeling restless?
I've been feeling that way for a couple days now -- not restless like, "Gee, wish I was going somewhere tonight", more like "It's time to be moving on".
Certainly, living in a dorm contributes to this. A tiny room, in a tiny building, with a community bathroom, and a plaque on your door that proclaims you "responsible, University chosen, quasi-adult". You'd be amazed at what that plaque on the door does -- people knock at any hour day or night, will sit down and make themselves comfortable when you're clearly doing something else, i.e. studying, or getting ready for bed, etc.
It's my third year in a tiny room, with institutional furniture, and community bathrooms -- and it's starting to feel a little closed in.

The Pick-Me-Up
I was feeling restless this evening until my parents called. There are many things that my family does well, but I think that laughing is our expertise. It always has been -- my memories are filled with images of my family gathered around the kitchen laughing hysterically. Just talking with my parents cheered me up, and I'm in a considerably better frame of mind.
They've had a quiet weekend in Dallas. Apparently Mom has been trying out new recipes, and this week they've sampled fish and chicken amandine to great success. When I lived at home the only recipes Mom tried out were casseroles -- what's the deal?
Anyway, I'm thankful for the conversation tonight, and the laughter.

Definitions
Omnium-gatherum: a miscellaneous collection, persons or things
Farrago: confused mixture; hodgepodge

My Dad brought these words to my attention, and I hope to use them this week in conversation.

Last but not least
The Missouri Tigers triumphed over the Red Raiders today, 62-31. It was a great game of football, and it's nice to actually have a decent football team to watch.
So this goes out to Clint, deep in Lubbock (aka "the armpit of Texas") -- Nana-nana-boo-boo, we won, nana-nana-boo-boo! (Please imagine annoying sing-song voice)

Things that are currently rockin' my socks off!!!
~My brother, boy genius, once again wins the "coolest big brother ever" prize for commenting on my blog. He's just about the best brother around, and I probably wouldn't trade him in -- maybe. Thanks for always taking time for me, yo!

~Quiet places to study such as 309 D -- a more hospitable abode you will not find, and it has such character with the slanting floors.

~Operation Walkie-Talkie -- Sorry, can't say more than that -- it's top secret, but it's super cool!

~My friends calling me to watch a movie this afternoon -- I can't imagine a lovelier way to spend a Monday evening than watching "Down with Love" (I recommend it) and eating Chinese food with some of my absolute favorite people.

~My Mom sending me a Norah Jones CD -- it was just what I needed today.

~Encouraging e-mails from the Burr, who let me tell you, is an amazing Spanish teacher, and one amazing woman, that I'm unbelivably blessed to know.

Who needs a box?
I tend to live in a box. I like things that are safe, reliable and predictable. You have to admit, stability has a lot going for it.
On the other hand, if you live in a box, never pushing at the walls around you, life tends to be, well, safe, reliable and predictable. You have to admit, never moving beyond your expectations can be boring.
I've always had friends who loved to danced, and I've always been slightly envious of them. It's certainly more comfortable to stand at the edges of the dance floor making snide and cynical comments. Comfortable, but drearly dismal.
It was rainy and cold last night, and Joanna asked me to go dancing. So, last night, I tried something that I'd never done before. The music was loud, and the club was smokey, and I probably looked like the biggest, silliest goof on the face of the planet. I smiled the entire time we were there.
The great thing about my friends is that they never stop pushing me. Gracious knows I never would have gotten the idea to go dancing on my own. So my thanks goes out to Dylan who asked me to go in the first place, Joanna who talked me into going, and Scott who looks oh-so GQ model-esque on the dance floor. When are we going again?

3:07 a.m.So I danced -- ain't that something. I'll write more tomorrow, but suffice to say:
My life astounds me -- I'm so beyond blessed in the people I know. My friends teach me things everyday, more than than they even realize. It's 3:07 a.m., and I've just had a great day, full of laughter, and music, and ear-to-ear grins.

It is a rainy Thursday night, and I am fixing to go dancing with Dylan and Joanna -- I have never been dancing -- Here's to adventures!!

As my dad would say...
When anyone in my family is in a grumpy mood, we refer to them as a "grumpy dog", for example "Sara is a grumpy dog today". As with most of my family quirks, I suspect that this one started with my Dad.
All that to say that I was kind of a "grumpy dog" today. I sat on hold with the people at McGraw-Hill publishing trying to get my Geology textbook, I engaged in an e-mail conversation attempting to make an appointment with my advisor and finally ended up getting a slightly snotty e-mail and a meeting after my registration date, and to top it all off, I was not nearly productive today as I needed to be. Plus the food at Twain was, as usual, mediocre.

Not a complete loss
Despite being in a semi-grumpy mood, today was in the long run pretty decent. I finished reading A Prayer For Owen Meany today, and was pleasantly surprised by a book I didn't expect to like. I ran into my friend Mel and had a pleasant lunch with her. I ate chips and salsa with Corina, Jenn, and John, and we all just about peed our pants we got to laughing so much. I also played hackey-sack in the hallway with Anna, which I think was a nice diversion for both of us.

Speaking of Hackey-Sack
I own a hackey-sack (I don't know if I'm spelling that right) -- at any rate, it used to belong to Jacob Greenan, but I absconded with it, and now use it for juggling. Note: I've never been adept at actually playing hackey -- so of course, yesterday, Anna, Erin, and I decided to kick the hackey-sack around. We're all pretty terrible at it, but we had fun, and I fell on my butt which gave us all a good laugh. We played again today, and I think we might be improving -- but not by much. But we did succeed in collapsing in fits of giggles.

On the cusp of coolness
I've been thinking about starting a blog for sometime, I figure it'll be an interesting experience if nothing else. But once again I find myself way behind all of my friends, who seem to all have blogs. I highly suspect that by the time I post a couple of entries, the fad that is blogging will have passed me by completely. Such is life.

But why this day to start a blog -- that's simple, I'm obviously avoiding the reading for J 200.

Who needs ambition?
Ambition is something I've been thinking about a lot lately. Well mostly the fact that I feel like I have no ambition. I told a couple of friends last night that my life goals were to write, play my saxophone, and speak Spanish. I have no idea how those activities are going to put food on my non-existent kitchen table.
But seriously, I had to fill out yet another of those "get to know you" sheets for reslife the other day, and under the question "what to you want to do after school" I paused and thought for a second. My eyes wandered to the sheet of the girl next to me who was busily writing in pink pen, "After I graduate, I want to go to NYC, become editor-in-chief of a magazine, or be a super-freelancer". I looked back to my paper, and wrote, "write, move to Alaska, teach - maybe". Shoot.