bust your windows outcha car.

Impressed by my unusual morning punctuality, I sling my purse over my shoulder and lock the back door. A few skip-steps through the gate, I round the front of my Pathfinder. The car key gravitates toward the keyhole, but falters, lowers like my jaw. I didn’t leave the window down...glass? Wh—how? Where’s...? Oh no...oh no, oh no, oh NO.

The glass shards glitter on the empty street and against the car’s red interior. Over strewn papers and CDs, my dash hangs—gutted—next to the open glove box and arm rest compartment. I stand dumbstruck, sweating in my cardigan and slacks, willing myself not to cry.

While this won't go down in my history of Best Mornings Ever, I can’t say it was one of my worst. Everyone loses money over car expenses, and that always sucks. However, today, the summation of simple kindnesses outweighs the pretty pennies spent. My neighbor came outside to sit with me until the police came. She spotted that, oddly enough, my iPod dangled from the glove box, left behind. The police officer swept glass out of my car and moved the busted window into the trash bin. My neighbor then took me to new teacher orientation, where I wasn’t penalized for being an hour and a half late. Meanwhile, Dad drove up to take my car in for a new window pane and see about replacing my stereo, because he insisted. A friend from training drove me across the city to my car. Though Stereo Stealer disconnected my A/C in the gutting process, Kwik Kar hooked it back up at no charge.

So now, eleven hours after a disappointing start, I’m singing praises for good citizens and a surprisingly non-detrimental perspective. And let's not forget, it's dinnertime. That ain't too shabby, folks.

so gangsta, i'm so thug.

The best social situations are ones which require zero sociability. Or, at least, that’s my stance today. Honestly, I think this is a terrible perspective, but there must be some truth...otherwise, I wouldn’t have driven all the way (and when I say “all the way,” know that I mean approximately seven blocks) to Starbucks just to pop in my headphones and stare down my laptop. Once upon an academic lifetime, my speedy typing impressed passersby as they awaited their coffee fix. Little did they know, I was backspacing seventy percent of the time... Little do you know, no one notices that sort of thing. But humor me. Let me think that my presence here is beneficial to all.

I just opened a saved word document, and had to laugh at a short dialogue I’d recorded. We’ll call this another little gem that exhibits my socializing oddities. (There are so, so many gems...)

After a big family birthday dinner, my dad pulled a lug wrench out of his car trunk. Somehow, my upturned hand of protest was mistaken for a happy retrieval because Dad placed the wrench in my palm, saying, “Here ya go! This should do the trick with your car-jack if you have another flat!” I appreciate that he was doing the Dad Thing and taking care of me, but, I didn’t drive into town. I rode the train. And, as most train riders would agree, it looks just a tad bit sketchy when a passenger trudges through the aisle with her fingers locked around a lug wrench.

For my sister’s amusement before she dropped me off, I scrunched up my face and shook the wrench around in mock intimidation. Picture it now and you’ll see how effective I’d be at making friends this trip. I sat down on a train station bench in the Crooked I—Irving, for those who don’t know—and tried to look innocent. Needless to say, this was not accomplished. You cannot hide a lug wrench—believe me, I tried. My dad, bless him, also sent me on my merry way with a plastic bag of liquor-affiliated koozies. Even a girly skirt and an embarrassed expression can’t counteract that kind of questionable baggage.

When my train arrived, I desperately scoured the upper-deck for an individual who might not call security on me. I didn’t want to stand around long, as that would draw more attention to the white-girl weapon in my hand, so I motioned toward a tattooed and tired young guy. “Mind if I sit here?”

“Not at all,” he said.

“Thanks...Don’t mind my wrench...”

His eyes glanced my hand. He shrugged, “As long as you don’t beat me with it.”

I set the metal on the table between us. A white-flag gesture. An inconspicuous shrug. “I’ll try to hold back.”

processing error.

Where thinking is concerned…I’m out of practice. My success in school depended on my ability to dissect whatever I read, viewed, or heard and to then fashion an intelligent afterthought. Naturally, I considered myself pretty successful, like most over-confident English majors do. But, now, I can’t seem to take anything further than, “How pleasant! I think I liked that.” Excuse me? Who is this eighty-year-old first-grader? The last few books I’ve read and movies I’ve watched are seriously profound in idea and beautiful in portrayal—I’m quite sure of that—so why am I satisfied with re-shelving the book or ejecting the DVD without understanding why these stories move me? It’s rather disappointing, really. I’m failing somewhere. I’m an average reader and mindless movie-watcher. Come on, Self, you didn’t use to be this way!

Without the threat of a due date, writing no longer has “purpose” for me. That statement alone should make me shudder--the good news is that it does. Hello, Child, writing isn’t about proving your ability, your skill, or your worth to a teacher, or anyone at all!

I need to be honest with myself. I process through pen and keyboard. I’m more thankful, more appreciative, more creative, more intellectual when I hold off a minute and let my mind wander. The first detour is meant to entice, not discourage. Keep going. Keep thinking. “I think I can, I think I can…”

In post-academic life, no one requires (or would even care for) me to spit out well-articulated analyses and arguments. But that’s not really the point, is it?

really, another disney star?

I wonder if, when I’m forty, I’ll still catch myself thinking, “Okay…that teen heartthrob is pretty dreamy.”

Because that would be gross. And totally inappropriate.

I just read an article on Nick Jonas. Why? Excellent question. Unfortunately, there is no acceptable answer. “I really respect his music,” would be a lie, considering I can only recognize one Jonas Brothers song and have never heard him solo. “I had nothing better to do,” would make my life sound pathetic. “His picture caught my eye and compelled me to read the entire article,” would be…accurate, and so, so lame.

You won’t see me in the first row at his concert, pressing an “I <3 NICK” shirt to my heart and crying joy-tears when he winks at the crowd. You won’t even find his album on my iTunes. But, if you ask, I’ll admit that, yes, I think he’s cute…even if he’s seventeen.

Honestly, it saddens me to know that this is the second teenage poster-boy I’ve written about. If I ever post anything with “Team Edward” or “Team Jacob,” someone please—I implore you—stop me before I start scribbling Mrs. So-and-So with hot-pink gel pens on my notebook.

the family that farkles.

I look at my dad’s first cousin’s daughter’s second husband and state, “Face it, man: you’re a farkler.”

I think that’s decent proof that family reunions are a bit ridiculous. In a good way, of course. I went to our reunion this weekend out in Super Small Town, Texas where, after walking in with Grandmother’s fruit tray, I was soon introduced to a second cousin twice removed (by the way, this is not The Farkler, and I have no clue at all how these two would be related). Soon, familiar faces trickled in with their multi-colored casseroles. We joined hands to pray; together, we circled the kitchen, hall, dining room, and den. By the time I picked up a plate, my young cousins were already scooping out seconds. Piles of macaroni and brisket disappeared and my aunt started to round up some of us for a dice game—she’s a big gamer, and we’re pretty obliging.

The Farkler corrals the dice with his forearm and shoves them to his daughter. “Right-o,” he says. “I farkled. I farkle. And don’t worry, folks, I’ll be farkling again soon.” We laugh like kids and test the verbs ourselves, tasting the silliness.

Farkle is a game of chance and risk-taking, but, as sixteen of us take turns, I realize that we’re all pitching out advice (even if it’s the peppy devil-at-your-ear kind). We’re involved and laughing regardless of which player’s rolling. As we’re gaming, I look through the window to the sunroom and see another twenty family members sipping tea and coffee, chatting and remembering. Being around families stirs that feeling in me that I get when I snuggle under my quilt and my dog curls into the crook of my leg, rests his head on my knees. It’s simple, sweet and comforting.

Now, really—who would expect that from a game called Farkle?

a minute on music, wind-style.

What’s new, pussy cat? Whoaaa, oh-owhoa-owhoa. There’s no reason for that sing-a-long (though I do hope you did sing along), except that I’d like to write today. If I’ve skipped writing for a while, I usually type out lyrics until I figure out what’s on my mind. And today I’m posting the lyrics, simply because they’re from a great old classic. That song trails into “Love Potion #9,” then “On the Boardwalk,” and eventually “Stand by Me.” I’m dreaming of a nap. In a hammock, swaying in the light breeze. Humming to old tunes and reminiscing about drives in my dad’s old orange Chevrolet, finger-drawing in the blonde fur seat covers.

When sweet, spring weather graced us last Monday, I popped Aerosmith’s Greatest Hits in my car stereo and skipped ahead to track eight. My elbow fell where the window disappeared and the wind sang Sweeeeeet Emohhhh-tion. What is it about wind-whipped acoustics that transforms good songs into great songs? Slip on your aviators, tousle your hair down and, hey now, check you out—life’s perfect and everybody wants you.

not a window to my soul.

My right eye has been bloodshot for weeks now, rebelling against allergy season and spiting my attempts to keep a contact lens on her. She is going to burn out of my socket and roll down the Salty Tear River that she churned to a constant current last night. My eye is rose-colored glass, and when she finally breaks free, she will shatter. I will be blind. At this point, I say bring on the eye-patch…at least I won’t look high anymore.

snow play.

Like the rest of all mystified Texans, I opened my door yesterday to a bright white morning. My jaw dropped and froze while my dog, Brody, pawed the thick fluff. Snow?! I couldn’t help but to laugh as I tried to “scrape” off my windshield—the snow was about four inches thicker than my old school ID makeshift scraper, so I ended up brushing off the mounds with my arm. I spent half of my workday watching the icy cotton fall outside the two-story shelter school window. It settled into the trees, the somewhere-down-there grass, and I kept thinking, this is real snow, man. REAL SNOW.

We normally get ice, slush, or just heavy cold rain...the pretend stuff. The only snowmen I’d seen were flecked with dirt and grass, melted by a day’s end. But not this time. Everything is caked in white, soft like powdered sugar. The yards and houses are stunning and gorgeous. My neighborhood is so picturesque! The street’s mud-sludge is the only hint of anything impure in sight. Snow clings onto every roof and blankets each bush. The cold it rained down with isn’t even that brutal! Brody and I gave our yard a played-in look, sinking and kicking up snow as we tromped around. I snapped pictures of my silly dog as he pounced down like Simba on Zazu. With each landing, he lapped up snow and shook off the cold like a champ.

Now, cozy in a sweatshirt and sipping my second mug of chai, I’m certain—this Snow Day is perfection.

so kidtastic.

Maybe it’s because these past few weeks have been extra kid-filled, but lately kids remind me of how good life is, how little things are worth getting excited over. It’s liberating to squeal and break out into ridiculous dance moves. I love the sweetness of playing make-believe and giggling about anything and everything. That youth-inspired goofiness is a natural high, an instantaneous pick-me-up. I smile about those little things a lot, and figure sharing a favorite memory might be the best way to show why.

I paralleled to the curb and flicked the key toward me. As the engine settled, I crossed my forearms over the wheel, let my head fall. The day felt so much longer than most. I had called my best friend’s aunt after class, and she said I could stop by; the kids would be happy to see me.

Back when I first met Drew, I was with my neighbors (who also happen to be my best friend’s family) and some of their cousins for a holiday play and a pancake house treat. As we left the play, Drew looked up at me and said bashfully, “I want to sit by youuuu.” His small, raspy four year old voice must’ve pinked my cheeks—he was just so adorable! Two years later when I moved to their city for college, I knew I’d be inviting myself over to that family’s house often. Like all little kids, Drew and his little sister, Ava, liked to show-and-tell their newest toys. Drew was shy and always waited quietly with his Lego creations while Ava bounced around or leapt into my lap, waving a doll in my face. Those kiddos have always lifted me up effortlessly. I banked on their gleeful energy to be contagious.

As I sat in the car, I thought about how much I’d love a hug from Ava. My last time over, she’d been in a mommy-only mood. She use to run and hug me the second she saw me, so the lack of that greeting didn’t go unnoticed. I figured she’d still be in that phase, reasoning that it wouldn’t, or at least shouldn’t, bother me. I bumped my car door shut and looked up just as the front door smacked against the side of their house. Ava ran at me, flailing her arms spastically and shouting “SarasarasarasarasaraSARA!!!!!!” She monkey-jumped to my hip and latched her arms around my neck. “I’ve been waiting for you forehhhhver!” she sang as I swung her down. Drew smiled from the doorway and eye-motioned to the Lego spaceship dangling at his knee. After a few minutes of bounding around the front yard, I chased the kids inside and spent the remainder of the afternoon as a human jungle-gym and master story-teller.

baby, baby, baby.

The baby boy sank into the pillow, nuzzled between my side and the crook of my arm. His belly raised infinitesimally, breath as soft as a butterfly’s landing. I turned a page of my book and looked down at him again—his eyelids fluttered at the slight shift, but he didn’t wake. He felt safe cradled against me, warmed by the rhythmic motion of my breath, deeper and longer than his own.

He wasn’t mine, but holding him like that nudged a mothery feeling in me, one that surprises me sometimes when I babysit. Maybe years from now, I’ll read by lamp-light, my arm numb from my sleeping infant’s weight. But now, the idea seems foreign, far off, and unreal. I wouldn’t exactly describe myself as “a baby person”. Sure, babies are cute, but I more often notice how they cry and scream, pull your hair and try to rip out your earrings. I don’t goo-goo gah-gah at every baby in sight, or say things like, “oh I just can’t wait to have one of my own!” I can definitely wait.

I don’t usually pass time by imagining motherhood, but, in those unexpected moments when a baby sleeps soundly against me, I feel like, someday, I could be a mom, and I could be a good one. I would hope to be, at least. I don’t really ever know what to do with that feeling. It’s still foreign, far off, and unreal, but it’s also sweet and oddly innate. It freaks me out and leaves me cozy and distant-future hopeful all at the same time.

did someone say dinner party?

The doorbell rang and I checked the peep hole: my first guest stood pulling on her pearls with one hand and balancing a pie dish in the other. I pat my bouffant hair and smoothed the ruffles in my skirt. “Hellooo, dahling! DO come in!” I cooed as she stepped inside. Another friend followed with a salad bowl in the crook of her arm. “To the kitchen, shall we?” As we waited for the green bean casserole and lemon-pepper chicken to arrive, we chit-chat about the rich and gorgeous husbands we’d invented, which naturally led to stories of our adorable children: Kitty, Bartholomew, Margot, and Derek Ronald Frances III.

I can’t remember how or why we came up with the idea for a Housewife Party, but it was one of the most memorable get-togethers of high school. We were junior girls, pot-lucking around my parents’ dining room table. We dabbed the corners of our lipsticked lips and giggled at each others poorly executed British dialect. “EXcellent nosh, loves. AbsoLUTely divine.” After indulging in homemade pie and a game of Life, we deemed our dinner party a massive success.

Six years later, I still love dinner parties (though they no longer include fake children or snooty accents). The community-style meals make hosting a cinch, and, more often than not, guests are happy to contribute. Last night, I only made the zucchini and roasted new potatoes. My friends covered the salad, pork tenderloin, brownies, and drinks. We broke into the wine, chat in the warmth of the kitchen, stayed at the table for hours...it’s hard to imagine an evening better-spent. These dinners counteract our work-induced exhaustion. We relax. We laugh. We say we should do this again, and we mean it. We all eat, so why not eat together? The concept is simple, and the effects are satisfying. Deeply satisfying. Satisfying like red wine and dark chocolate. Like red wine and dark chocolate and a good book. And a warm blanket. Mmmmyes, I think I’ll bask in a feeling like that. Every chance I get.

touch my swag, wish you could.

Either my body needs to learn how to stop bruising, or I need to learn how to stop slamming into inanimate objects.

This is on my mind because, naturally, I just walked right into the bathroom doorframe. My left shoulder didn’t quite make it through. At least I didn’t hit my leg this time—a lovely bluish-yellow line is still visible on my thigh from last Friday’s bedroom door collision. Granted, it was before 6 a.m., and I really can’t be expected to dodge these things in the dark and morning delirium. Doorframes aren’t my only issue, though. They normally only catch my shoulders, whereas doorknobs bang up my hipbone, and the coffee table nearly brakes my shins every time I walk through the living room. And, since I’m confessing all sides of my inability to walk, I’ve also been known to shut the door on my own leg (did I really not notice that I hadn’t slipped all the way out yet?). Nearly every day I find faint bruises, and I run into stuff so often that I have a hard time figuring out how I acquired them. I think the time has come for me to finally own up to the truth…

This obviously has something to do with my swag.

I recently learned that I have “a walk”. A teenager at the Shelter, where I work, asked me what I was like in high school. Not sure what she was looking to know, I said, “Cool, of course.” I laughed and she cocked her head with her hand on her hip, waiting for a more detailed answer. “Well, I was cool with my friends. I wasn’t in the party-happy in-crowd, but those kids were nice to me, so I guess I had it pretty good. I liked where I was at. Why?”

“Because,” she said, “you walk like you were cool. You know, like you were the kind of girl who could get away with whatever she wants. I can just picture you walkin' down the hall like a bad a--I mean, like someone who owned the place.” I keeled over laughing as a couple of other girls circled around us. “She has a walk, right? Don’t you think Miss Sara must’ve been cool in high school?”

“Yeah, Miss Sara! You totally have a walk.”

“It’s true! You do, Miss!” The girls all nodded and reassured me about my coolness, which was highly amusing and somehow flattering, even if I did make them walk in front of me the rest of our way back to the Shelter.

I’m glad that teenagers can read so much into my walk, but it’d really be nice if doorframes and furniture would follow suit. Show a little respect. Give the distance a cool kid like me deserves.

go, go gourmet: take 2.

Not only do I now know how to use a garlic press, but I own one. Be impressed—I can mince, slice, press, and roast garlic. I know, I know. A sure sign of talent. I’m expecting the Food Network’s job offer any day now. Say it with me: Saucy Suppers with Sara. Has a nice ring, doesn’t it?

I’m in the kitchen a lot these days, which is great, because it makes me happy. Super happy, in fact. Stocking up my kitchen has been a long process; vinegars, sauces, spices, herbs, and cooking utensils can’t all be on one receipt (unless they’re on someone else’s). I’m a crock-pot and food processor away from reaching Junior Suzie Homemaker status. As I’m only a young twentysomething, I don’t intend to go full-Suzie and prance around my kitchen in an apron and pearls. And, really, when given the choice between high heels and sock-monkey slippers, you know I’m going with the latter.

As with my cooking attire, my dinners aren’t lavishly sophisticated yet. That’s mainly because my budget doesn’t allot much extra spending on fancy foods. Take Central Market’s London broil, for example. I asked the meat guy for a price estimate and thought I might splurge, but when he slapped the meat on the scale and said it’d be $11.62 for 1.66 lbs, I walked away. Actually, I moved my pencil from the corner of my lips, pointed it at him and said, “Oh, um, I just don’t think I’ll be able to pay that. I mean, there isn’t even any fresh basil, which is a major letdown—you always have basil, it’s the staple herb!—and my whole menu for tonight was based off the idea that I’d be buying fresh basil for the main dish and the side, you know, to use it up,” and, pulsing my pencil mid-air at every word, I finished, “Sorry, I just don’t think I can justify this...but, I might be back. Ah, this is complicated! I had it all planned out, you know?” He offered one of those you’re-amusing-and-borderline-crazy smiles and I lowered my pencil, thinking how I should never hold one again while shopping.

So I can’t buy pricey meats, and I cook a lot of chicken. But chicken is delicious! Especially when simmered in the mustard sauce I whipped up last night. Shallots, chicken broth, brandy, chardonnay, heavy cream, Dijon mustard, chives...now that’s gourmet. I might also add that, though I didn’t include garlic in my sauce, I did roast and mash it into my potatoes. I’m under the impression that garlic fancies up any meal, and makes your house smell like you’ve been slaving away for hours. It’s a smart trick—I’m sure you’ll hear me mention it again someday on an episode of Saucy Suppers with Sara.