Ride across the Arabian Desert on horseback, grow a giant pumpkin and carve it, audition for the Bellydance Superstars, go to Antarctica to shake hands with a penguin, learn to fly a helicopter, be in a blockbuster movie as an extra, learn how to make really good tofu, learn to fence and dress up as Inigo Montoya and duel a friend to "death," learn to play the harpsicord, write a novel in German, drink coffee with old men in as many countries as possible, count lions on horseback in Zambia, fall in love so hard that it takes courage to be okay again, paint on the Mississippi, learn ASL, get painted in henna from head to toe with patient hands, change the world, become a bendy yogi, teach a cockatoo piratespeak and donate him to old people's home, find the light in the Provence again, fall asleep on a summer night on a giant bed in the middle of a Grimm fairy tale forest, terrify the doubters, teach in a New York public school, cook for the royalty in my life.
I was a pirate in a previous lifetime because I have an affinity to parrots and fishnets. I like making lists. I believe the good in people but still have visions on stomping on them if they disappoint me. I am German-American but have made it my personal duty to convince everyone that everything is better in Germany. I enjoy long walks and don't bother with an umbrella when it rains. I am a good cook but I won't prepare any meat for you, thanks for asking. I write stories, but slowly; last time I finished anything good, I was fourteen years old. Often, my ideas sound better in my head than they do out loud. I enjoy naps on Sunday afternoons.
Poetry has never made me cry, but I cherish the thought of finding the poem that does. I will win any argument you choose to have with me. The way to my heart is my hands; I enjoy giving to people whether it is pomegranate tea or asking them what makes them smile. I'm named after Saint Elisabeth of Hungary, Queen of Roses. I can't abide useless people. Tell me my eyes are beautiful and I'll throttle you. I make German friendships. Meet me at first, I'll be cordial. Come to my home and bring flowers, and I'll cook for you. Then you'll be my friend for life.
When I get a book deal for a novel, I will call these people in the following order: My mom, who paid 40k a year for me to get a degree in writing, my gramma who makes Shakespeare professors look like drooling halfwits, my cousin David to gloat because he always thinks he's so much better than me because he's six months older and is majoring in journalism at a real liberal arts school, and then you. You'll bring the champagne and I'll bake the plum streuselkuchen. I think nothing is sexier than self-confidence. I'm happy dancing alone, but I'd rather dance with you. One day, I will be an insanely cool and crazy aunt. I know how to properly lace a corset. I like snatching pollen out of midair. I own too many scarves, but my favorite one is yellow, totally not pashmina, and I bought it on the street corner during the intermission of Les Miz with my Girl Scouts troop in London. I enjoy knowing how little I know. I do think New York is all that it is cracked up to be.
I am a woman of action and won't be the one staring at the body going, someone should call 911. If you call me, I will help you drag the body across your living room floor. When I look confused, my eyes widen, and my right eyebrow goes way up, and I stare over your shoulder. There's only one dress I own that I strut in. I enjoy breaking a sweat, especially if it's eight against one, and I'm the one. I think fairy tales should stay gruesome. My favorite picture out of any of the National Geographic issues from 1987 to 2001 is Sharbat Gula. I'm useless at little nitpicky craft things but I can make a damn fine paper crane. I talk fast and never in straight lines.
And most importantly, you're my kind of stupid.
The Truth the Dead Know
by Anne Sexton
Gone, I say and walk from church,
refusing the stiff procession to the grave,
letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.
We drive to the Cape. I cultivate
myself where the sun gutters from the sky,
where the sea swings in like an iron gate
and we touch. In another country people die.
My darling, the wind falls in like stones
from the whitehearted water and when we touch
we enter touch entirely. No one's alone.
Men kill for this, or for as much.
And what of the dead? They lie without shoes
in the stone boats. They are more like stone
than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse
to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.