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.”