all rainbows and sunshine

woe is my mouth.

2012-01-12T20:15:00.003-06:00

When my dentist reenters the room and reassures me by saying, “I just drank half a Red Bull—I’m ready to take down this root canal!” you know my first thought is: Yes. This is exactly how I wanted to end my day.

At my last visit to the dentist’s office, the assistant numbed the lower half of my mouth and I literally couldn’t speak without slurring. Unfortunately, slurring led to giggling; at one point, the background jam of “I like it when you call me Big Papa, throw ya hands in the aya…” sent me into a peal of laughter which paused her work nothing shy of three times.

So today, when my dentist decides halfway through the drilling/pressing/pain that this is an excellent time for small talk, I’m a little wary. He asks me about teaching, and I respond with “UNNHHH….” While I had rather hoped this would translate to, “Why are you asking me questions when you can clearly see the jaw-jacking hockey puck between my teeth?” I’m afraid the grunt came across as, “Ask away!” A series of questions later, I lie in the chair and wonder how much fun this conversation can really be, considering that all of my answers are various pairings of sound and noncommittal waves of the hand.

Time passes to the beat of pop and country hits, all of which are relatively enjoyable (with the exception of “Red Solo Cup.” Why, oh why, was that song written?). The attack on my poor little mouth aside, I was honestly pretty comfortable. They even left the heavy x-ray bathmat across me so I could keep warm. My numb mouth made me feel a bit like Scar’s tongue-lolling pal Ed, but they did supply me with sunglasses to wear...at night...indoors. Quite the experience.

The good news is, I should be able to chew on the right side of my mouth again, a habit six months absentee. How I managed to use only my left side, with the occasional test of mashed potato pressure on the right, is beyond me. I’d like to think of this as accomplishment, along with my choice to skip writing for a year and a half, and then post this.

bust your windows outcha car.

2010-08-11T19:15:00.002-05:00

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.

2010-08-05T19:25:00.007-05:00

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.

2010-07-27T09:22:00.003-05:00

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?

2010-04-23T10:56:00.003-05:00

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.

2010-04-21T13:39:00.001-05:00

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.

2010-03-19T13:43:00.001-05:00

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.

2010-02-19T10:22:00.001-06:00

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.

2010-02-12T16:07:00.001-06:00

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.

2010-02-10T16:19:00.004-06:00

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.

2010-02-10T15:27:00.001-06:00

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?

2010-01-31T12:16:00.005-06:00

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.

2010-01-18T09:40:00.004-06:00

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.

2010-01-10T12:35:00.001-06:00

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.

wish upon a starbucks.

2009-09-05T11:35:00.003-05:00

A friend posted an essay of mine on his website (a place you should really check out anyway).

http://www.sevenminutepitch.com/contributors/2009/9/5/wish-upon-a-starbucks-sara-hevron.html

I've blogged a few times about my Starbucks experiences, but this is the background, the real coffee in the cup.

librarian dreams.

2009-06-19T23:25:00.004-05:00

If my house caught on fire, I’d save my books first. I know I should answer the age-old “if you could only save one thing” question with, say, my dog or my roommate, but...let’s be honest, my books are way more flammable. And if we want to get specific, I’d snatch my Harry Potter set first—I interned at Bloomsbury Publishing in London and sort of snuck them home with me. I say “sort of” because I was allowed to take books, but I’m guessing that didn’t translate to, “Why sure, we’d be more than happy to donate a hardback set worth £115.00! Whatever suits your fancy, love!” Nonetheless, the books are mine, and I adore them.

I’ve always been obsessed with reading. As a kid, I would make my mom read to me in Dad’s comfy recliner way past my bedtime. Every summer, I participated in the library’s Summer Reading Club. In junior high, I won Outside Reading awards. In high school, I actually read a lot of the assigned books (which is saying something...kids these days). In college, I majored in English and minored in British Lit. Therefore, it should not surprise anyone that I spent the last half hour reorganizing a bookshelf.

When I pulled Under the Tuscan Sun—only two quarters, courtesy of the Friends of the Library program—from my bag this afternoon, I realized that I could justifiably revamp my Contemporary bookshelf. (I also have a Classics bookshelf and a Leftovers bookshelf, where I stash the unlikable school texts and those with ugly bindings.) Before shuffling books around, I started the Coldplay CD my roommate recently burned for me and decided that, gee, the scrumptious scent of a crème brûlée candle sure would be nice. I stood before the shelf, pulling books, replacing and moving them based on aestheticism. Can’t have white next to grey—insert color here. Hey this can be a need-to-read shelf! Hmm, short books together, or intermixed? I like it, I like it. I sat down on the couch, admiring my work. I leapt to the fireplace, to marvel from a different angle. I pushed and tugged books less than half a centimeter, convinced that such “vast changes” made all the difference.

As I sit here now, I can honestly say that my Contemporary bookshelf looks fabulous. Eclectic. Sophisticated and scholastic. In fact, I can’t stop looking at it. I highly doubt anyone will ever notice a difference, but, I know. And I know it looks good.

go, go, gourmet.

2009-06-13T17:43:00.003-05:00

I recently copied down a recipe for Summer Garden Pasta from the Barefoot Contessa’s cookbook. The dish required me to julienne basil leaves and mince garlic, which seemed mighty upscale compared to my normal noodles, veggies, and sauce-from-the-jar pastas. But, I needed to venture beyond those humdrum basics. I purchased grape tomatoes, fresh basil leaves, kosher salt, and angel hair noodles at Central Market, as Central Market automatically instills sophistication and the illusion of a gourmet future in the average grocery shopper.

For the accidentally forgotten garlic and parmesan cheese, I stopped by Target after work the next day—the day I would master Summer Garden Pasta. I wandered between the two kitchenware aisles, fascinated by nifty apple slicers and wary of potato peelers. To my great dismay, no housewifely women were in sight to answer my amateur questions. What exactly is a paring knife? Why are there so many variations of cheese graters? How are you supposed to use this garlic press? Do I even need a garlic press?

Twenty minutes later, with a not-so-ominous pink chopping knife in my cart, I arrived at the garlic bins. And I panicked. I needed six cloves. What are cloves? The entire thing? That would be, like, a pound of garlic! What kind of recipe is this? Not trusting my own judgment—a wise decision—I asked a friendly-looking young woman to enlighten me. She smiled one of those “oh you’re so adorably clueless” smiles and informed me that cloves are the small sections, not the entire thing. With a quick “okay thanks bye,” I rushed to check out, go home, and test my cooking skills.

I poured olive oil into my new glass bowl and added the red pepper flakes and other seasonings. I halved the tomatoes, julienned the basil, and minced the garlic with my “it’s a girl” pink knife. I was getting pretty impressed with myself—I felt so Rachael Ray. Four hours later, after the mix had soaked and been stirred around the angel hair, a friend and I ooh-ed and ahh-ed over the finished pasta. We sprinkled on extra parmesan and basil—an extra touch of class—and photographed the masterpiece. I felt ecstatic, almost giddy. I hadn’t botched the recipe! Rather, my Summer Garden Pasta was good. Seriously good. And my next gourmet meal will be even better...so I hope.

starbs post: on ice.

2009-05-27T16:43:00.001-05:00

Last time I came to Starbucks, I started a post that I didn’t publish. I’ll post it now, since I can follow up with a happier note.

“I paid straight from the coin purse today. I like to do that periodically. If I’m not using my card or dollar bills, it seems like I’m not paying. I don’t keep track of my change, and therefore don’t keep track of when I’m losing it—a genius budgeting trick, I know. Like an extra special treat, a forgotten five crumpled in your raincoat pocket.

I was ready to count out $1.73, but apparently iced coffee costs $2.11. Yes, your math is correct: ice is worth $0.38. Inconceivable! I also didn’t realize that what I really wanted was an iced latte, not an iced coffee, which is a flat Diet Coke look-alike. And, the velvety burnt-orange comfy chairs were all taken. This is not a good day for Starbucks. I’ll try again next week...if I can hoard enough pennies.”

Bitter Betty, right there.

It’s next week now and I’m a happy camper. The main upside to the day is that a friend was working (the only Starbucks barista who knows my name, though he doesn’t count, as he’s known me for four years already—the name dilemma is a story for another day). My iced latte was on the house and I tried the toffee almond bar, or something by a similar name, which was discounted from another barista. Glorious!

I’m becoming a fan of the iced drinks here. I can’t justify ordering a hot drink when it’s hot outside, which would be like wearing a swimsuit while ice fishing—doable, but uncomfortable. Iced drinks are where it’s at. Starbucks makes bank in the summertime—as I learned last week, ice is an expensive add-on. Now that I’ve come to terms with that, I can look forward to chomping on coffee-flavored ice all summer. Good times await.

phlegmbot.

2009-05-27T15:46:00.001-05:00

I can’t exactly tell you what “sinuses” are, but I can confidently say that I have them, and I hate them. My favorite way of describing this problem is: “My sinuses are acting up again,” a phrase that I always thought was normal until a friend recently kept repeating it back to me, like I had said something along the lines of “my hosiery is bunching.” I suppose my dad use to say that (about sinuses, not hosiery). If I tell you that my sinuses are “acting up,” I am just trying to convey that it feels like a hippopotamus decided to stifle my stuffy, runny nose by sitting on my face. The pressure, the inability to breathe—delightful, really. Three cheers for sinuses! Hoorah!

There are no pretty words to describe sinuses. For example: drainage. Snot. Phlegm. Mucus. Sick, sick, sick. There are also nice phrases you can use during your suffering, like “sorry, I don’t mean to suck back my snot,” or “I keep coughing up drainage.” Dinner table commentary. Like the melodious sounds of nose-blowing, everyone loves hearing it.

I’m happy to report that the hippopotamus is slowly easing off my face, though. Soon I’ll be back to tip-top shape, and I promise to stop throwing around words like “phlegm.” In the meantime, I wish you health and happiness.

a call to the bookish.

2009-05-13T23:05:00.001-05:00

“Join my book club!” I whisper in the ear of an unsuspecting Barnes and Noble shopper. She jumps and drops the book she was re-shelving. I plead, “Oh, do join, won’t you?” while rocking on the balls of my feet, clutching a paperback to my chest. She politely shakes her head and backs into the Summer Reading display. Side-steps to the aisle, still shaking her head and avoiding eye contact. I persist. “What if I bake cookies?” She murmurs something about needing to meet a friend and sprints toward the check-out counter. “CHOCOLATE CHIP!” I shout, waving Sloane Crosley’s I Was Told There’d Be Cake above my head like a billboard-sized bribery check. “EXTRA CHIPS! CHOCOLATE!”

Luckily, this scene is entirely hypothetical—I just don’t see it going over well. Something about the Betty Crocker Turned B&N Stalker approach seems, oh, I don’t know...daunting? Desperate? Therapy-worthy?

But I really do want to join or start a book club. Already finished my first summer read (see: bribery check reference above). Essays by a NYC twentysomething with a stash of plastic ponies and mad cynicism skills? Yes, please! And tonight I watched The Jane Austen Book Club with my dog and leftover Chinese, which naturally reminded me that a) I am really cool, and that b) I absolutely must circle-up with fellow literature lovers this summer. Fiction or non-fiction, classic or contemporary—I’ll read it with you.

If it helps, I really will bake you cookies.

cowabunga, dudes.

2009-05-12T22:53:00.005-05:00

We fidgeted on the ledge of our first photo shoot backdrop of the day: the infamous Frog Fountain. Two nights before, we’d splashed around with a co-ed cheer camp fervor until the campus cops came—naturally, we then hightailed-it to somewhere we could drip-dry inconspicuously. Sopping wet clothes now seemed glorious compared to the sweat trickling beneath our purple graduation robes. But, we needed to document this monumental week. We weren’t going to be college kids forever. We had one more day. One. More. Day.

So we jumped.

A friend’s proud mom Kodaked the moment: Lily pads of Frog Fountain curtain water behind us. Robes flutter around our midair forms. Arms high in various Power Ranger poses—mine whipped up into an unplanned ballerina “O.” Eyes squinting against the sunlight. Expressions of fear and glee. Everyone’s mouths open, presumably squealing “ahEEEE!” like little girls on a Slip ‘n Slide.

I saw this picture for the first time the day after graduation. Two photos before it, our group of eight crouched around the school’s emblem and then we held up our horned-frog hands at the school’s metal frog statue. My eyes started blurring. I flipped back and forth, tearing up at our smiles and how clearly they sang of the deep friendships we’d formed over the past four years. I looked up to avoid crying—it’d be my first time to break, to realize that we really did graduate. Life wasn’t going to look the same anymore, which is an obvious reality and a loaded question mark. My mind raced through the past four years. Lounging and laughing in each others’ dorms until unthinkable hours, practically every night freshman year. Coffee shop dates and late night heart-to-hearts. Interpretive dancing on the shores of various lakes. Typical downtown adventures. A recent camping trip when a raccoon stole my shoe. And, of course, our always-comical photo shoots. I clicked for the next picture, The Jump. I burst into a peal of laughter and the tears I’d been holding back spilled down—eyes to cheek to shirt. This is college, I realized. It ends, but it doesn’t. We rocked those college years, and we’ll rock our futures. We’re moving forward—some are moving out of city, out of state—but, in a way, we’ll still be the kids jumping off Frog Fountain.

color me jealous.

2009-05-11T21:00:00.001-05:00

Last Saturday, I discovered a complex in my neighborhood that I’d sell my neighbor’s cat to live in (I’m not at the love-level of wanting to sell my own pet yet). Of course, I love my duplex—it’s quaint, ancient, and adorable, like a porcelain doll tea party. But I’m talking about a complex—more rooms equal more awesome. The red brick, two-story building didn’t exactly scream, “Safe! Clean! Bring your mom over for Thanksgiving dinner!” The lower-level windows were wide open, showcasing treasures like colored glass jars, a faded Talking Heads poster, and a papier-mâchéd mannequin. There was also a poster of a suited wise guy, pointing his finger at me, asking the bold-print question, “Do YOU work for yourself?” The artsy Austinesqueness of this place has a lot more appeal than I would’ve previously guessed. I’ve since walked by three times, which I’ll admit is a bit excessive. Today, I strolled by so slowly that two pugs felt it necessary to “run me off” by sticking their punched faces into the holes of the brick porch design and yapping...I think they’re on to me.

I’m not ready to leave my digs (note the casual usage of an out-dated word, like “rad.” Can someone please bring that back? Thanks). But, a move is inevitable when August hits. For now, I’ll just continue to casually stalk this complex. It’s full right now, but maybe one of the tenants will get creeped-out when he or she spots me swooning on the street corner like Charlie outside the Chocolate Factory. It's bound to happen. Afterall, I have two and a half months.

the final step.

2009-05-07T16:05:00.001-05:00

This Saturday afternoon, I’ll don a billowy purple robe. A tasseled hat. A smile—maybe a tear or two. I’ll sit in a chair, center-stadium. Walk across a stage when a stranger reads my name loudly, clearly. Then, finally: “Congratulations, Class of 2009!”

So surreal.

dove chocolate wisdom.

2009-04-25T11:48:00.005-05:00

“Laugh uncontrollably. It clears the mind!” Love the truth in that.

starbs post: it starts.

2009-04-15T08:53:00.003-05:00

Starbucks and I are best buds. The baristas still don't know my name, but I'm confident that they will. Someday. Until then (and surely after), I'm blogging about my Starbs mornings. Yes, this will likely be a weekly post. Get excited.

Today I’m testing Casi Cielo—it sounds classy; “Pike Place,” the daily brew, does not. If I spot a new flavor scrawled in chalk over the coffee machines, I ask the barista to describe it. I nod, periodically turning down the corners of my mouth or raising an understanding eyebrow. So, what you’re saying is, this aromatic delicacy pleases your palette with flower and tree bark flavor sensations? I exude coffee-snob wisdom. Before tasting today’s choice flavor, I check the Starbucks website for the official blurb. Casi Cielo is “elegant.” The savory description reads like a Machiavellian persuasion; I’m sold. I steal a dainty sip and wonder where the “lemony flourish” is because I’m sensing more a “flourish of tar.”

I don’t even really like coffee—I pay $1.73 for the Starbucks feel. The clashing streams of chit-chat, up-and-coming musical genius, and collisions behind the counter meld together beautifully. Like chirpy birds and construction cranes, twittering and thundering before daybreak. Scents of over-baked muffins and fresh coffee shift ever-so subtly. Sunlight streams in and I sigh out my wish to stay forever. Apparently the ambiance makes me feel poetic. I always leave Starbucks happy. Light. Carefree. Like all is right. Like I should be skipping, frolicking. Or admiring a whisper-soft dandelion. I’m no longer a tired college student, but a hippie-child ready to embrace the pretty people around her.

Sly drug, that caffeine.

fly guy and roach girl.

2009-04-11T13:06:00.001-05:00

Instead of buying toys for my dog, I lure flies into the house with flashlights, rave-style. If the weather’s nice, like today, I just leave the front door open and let flies come and go as they please. I’m an awfully nice host. Brody, however, is not.

Currently, Brody is trying to catch a very unlucky fly. He’s hip-hopping around like a spastic deer. Or a rodeo pony, bucking like mad. He’s chomping the air, but the fly escapes. Chomp, chomp. He’s got it! Wait, now he’s spitting it out. And now he’s trying to lick it up. To spit it back out again. To dance around it. To lick it up. Spit. Dance. Go, Brody, go!

I should probably stop this, but… It’s. Just. So. Amusing. This charming scene (is it not charming?) reminds me of my mother’s favorite story: “Pretty Princess and the Roach.”

One sunny afternoon, two-year-old Pretty Princess was playing in the front yard. Mom was sitting on the porch, reading. When Mom looked up, she saw Pretty Princess smelling the flowers. “Aww, she’s so adorable,” Mom thought. Then Pretty Princess raised her little hand up to her mouth. “Baby, what is that? What’s in your hand?” Mom went to check. “AHHHHHH! Spit that out! Oh my gosh ohmygoshOHMYGOSH! Why are you eating a ROACH?! Spit it out! AHHH!” Mom screamed as she ran back and forth. To Pretty Princess. To the porch. Pretty Princess. Porch. Finally, Mom got a grip and snatched the roach out of her daughter’s mouth. Pretty Princess laughed and laughed.

Yeah. That’s not a cute story, especially as “Pretty Princess” was me. I’ve since developed a serious roach-aversion, like a normal, non-bug-eating individual. Brody, on the other hand...well, he’s just going through his two-year-old “bug phase.”

a room no longer mine.

2009-04-03T15:34:00.009-05:00

From my tween years to my teen years, my room blossomed. Summer after sixth grade, my dad and I prettified the walls with a light green tint, in honor of my mint chocolate chip ice cream addiction. I added bright nail polish stains to the previously clean, cream carpet: Midnight Blue, Pink Lady, and Seashore Darling. The metallic beads dangling from my dresser, headboard, and window sills looked so hip. I taped crinkly red streamers above my TV for my fifteenth birthday, and they stayed there. Pictures of plastered dance team smiles, giddy girls with arms draped shoulder to shoulder, and Sonic French fry fights overlapped on my five photo boards. I sticky-tacked magazine cut-outs on the wall—my favorite: “Ah, to be blonde.” I devoted my closet doors to Seventeen’s hunky heartthrobs, such as the pretty O-Town boys and the ruggedly gorgeous Paul Walker. I mixed the old pieces-of-Mom with new pieces-of-me. Her charcoal sketch of a horse and porcelain dolls clashed with my *NSYNC poster and complete Beanie Baby cat collection. My room rocked spunky, teenage flair—I would never change it.

Or, so I thought.

I moved back home for the summer break after my first year of college. I tried to pretend that the room didn’t feel weird. This was still my room—this was home. But most of my things were in boxes, piled against the closet door. I unpacked my clothes, but no decorations. What was the point? Over the two summer months, I realized that I wasn’t actually staying in my room. It belonged to High School Sara, or at least it did—I took half of her stuff to the dorm. The other half, still up, was an expression of a girl I didn’t relate to anymore—she seemed so young, out-of-touch. I wasn’t the girl who had proudly personalized that bedroom.

Not anymore.

One morning, I rolled up her boy band poster and bagged her Beanie Babies, but left Mom’s dolls—they weren’t mine to move. Pitched her pink-vested sing-and-dance hamster into a bag with metallic bead necklaces to give to the young neighbor girls. I boxed her Tigers paraphernalia and tacked a small Horned Frogs flag above the mirror. I turned slowly in the center of the room, like a music-box figurine. And there was the Super Secret Friendship Box, sitting on Mom’s antique dresser.

I sat on the floor, ruffling through the mementos, collected since 1990. These were still mine. Best friends forever. Nine photo booth strips, dating back to the days before make-up. The zany facial expressions, the signature smirks, made me smile. I lifted three pairs of “Best Friend” key-chains from the bottom of the box—crowned frogs, a halved heart, and fuzzy bunnies. We’d matched everything growing up, key-chains to Disney Princess t-shirts. I flipped through photos of us “modeling” in Mom’s old-lady flannel nightgowns; lounging on the floor, flipping through a copy of Seventeen together; at the vanity mirror, curling ringlets for prom. I looked through the pictures again, three times. Liz would’ve loved going through this with me, but she was on a backpacking trip with her family. I’d be at school again before she returned.

I carefully replaced the lid and tucked the box behind tangled black and gold homecoming mums in the closet. A remote peeked out from under the bed and I reached for it. The room had no TV; I had taken it to my dorm.

[Edited 6.20.09]

and that will be my room.

2009-04-03T15:08:00.017-05:00

The front bedroom use to be Grandma’s. She’d visit from Florida once every four or five years—for a week, at most. Besides that, no one spent time in there. Ever. The door might open for the occasional wrapping paper hunt, or blanket search, but that was it. I didn’t understand why we kept Grandma’s room empty. Mom even closed the vent, making the stale air only breathable to dust-bunnies. The room was nearly twice the size of the one I shared with Jon, and we had too much personality as kids to “play nice” together in our cramped space. Jon liked N64’s Banjo-Kazooie and Cruis'n USA; I liked board games and girl-talk. I craved my own space, boy-free—the front bedroom would be perfect. Grandma certainly wouldn’t mind sharing with her sweet granddaughter for a few days once a decade.

When I turned twelve, my mom thought I was responsible enough to not color on the walls or rub silly-putty into the carpet. Once a week, I could play in Grandma’s room. Only on the floor. And no snacks allowed. Especially not crumbly Little Debbie Zebra Cakes.

That first afternoon, I stayed for hours. Mom trusted me to be on my “best behavior,” so I sat Indian-style on the floor, reading. I couldn’t focus, so I looked around, memorizing the room. The blank walls to fill with anything I wanted, like my Backstreet Boys poster, or maybe I’d get a movie poster of She’s All That! I’d tape them behind the headboard. That’d be perfect. I’d hang my glass pony from the light chain, my clothes in my own closet. I smiled at the closed door and listened. No unfunny jokes on Cartoon Network. No soap-opera-style Batman figurine fights. And, of course, no little brother. I loved the stillness. Everything about that room appealed to me. It was so...grown-up. The orange-and-grey floral bedspread and matching curtains were so ugly; I wondered if I’d start liking patterns like that, too. I loved the vanity table—even Mom’s room didn’t have one. And the queen-size bed—huge! I closed my eyes and fluttered my legs against the fluffy carpet, trying to hold back a pixie-like happy-dance. Oh, how I wanted that room!

For my thirteenth birthday, I got my ears pierced and slept in my new room. Not our room. My room. I’d been asking for months. Begging. Pleading. After much bribery, including “I love you, Mom” pressed-flower bookmarks and endless promises of my responsible maturity, Mom relented. To complete the best-birthday-ever, Mom let my BFFL spend the night. Liz and I pressed our noses against the vanity mirror as we imaginatively applied Mom’s leftover ‘80s make-up; the glittery gold lipstick sparkled like Tinkerbelle’s fairy dust. During games of M.A.S.H., we both married Jonathan Taylor Thomas and drove expensive Buicks. Mom brought us bag after bag of popcorn; she was gracious enough to revoke the no-snacks rule.

We giggled under that ugly bedspread until The Parent Trap lulled us to sleep—to sleep in my room.

[Edited 6.20.09]

don't drip on me, denny's.

2009-04-01T09:54:00.009-05:00

Denny’s is arguably the least cool restaurant in existence. As a truly devoted customer, I can say this without reservation. Denny’s, though dear to my heart, is an awful, awful restaurant. While studying two nights ago, the ceiling dripped on me.

My fellow Denny's regular noticed first. “Uhh, scoot to your left.”

“What? Why do—SICK! What is that? Is it on me?!” I frantically bounced around in the booth. “Why do we come here again?”

“For the great service.” New Guy, who we’re still working on training, likes to look at our empty glasses and pushed-aside plates, ask if we need anything, and walk away empty-handed. We miss our old waiter, “SayWhat” (yes, his nametag really says that). He was equally oblivious to our clean-table needs, but he was a real ham. And, he knew our names. And our table.

“For the hip tunes, which are never distracting.” Kelly. MJ. Backstreet. Petty. Kanye. J-Timberlake. Frequent roller-rink throwbacks. Techo remixes. Even real talent, like Hannah Montana.

“For the health food.” An acquired taste. I’d recommend the Plain White Shake (cheesecake mashed into vanilla deliciousness), or Strips ‘n’ Sticks (greasifried chicken and mozzarella). When camping out at Denny's for our typical 3-5 hour sessions, everything tends to taste oh-so much better.

"For the popularity—this place is hoppin'." We're often the only people not paid to be there.

...Well, Denny’s, see you again tonight! Kindly lend me your fluorescent ambiance. Big test tomorrow. And 3 papers (or is it 4?). If I may, for my grand entrance, I’d like to request Britney’s “Womanizer.” You say I’m crazy. I got yo’ crazy. I’m confident that this will happen—both the song and, by the end of the night/morning, the sentiment.

sock monkey slippers.

2009-03-30T07:35:00.001-05:00

Clickety-click, click, click, whimper. My dog prances on the left side of my bed; I don’t stir. He skirts under the bed, to the right side. Click, clickety-click, click, whimper. I touch my phone, to check the time. 6:50 a.m. A mumbled “I hate you, Brody,” and I tumble out of bed.

I stand on the porch while Brody wanders oh-so cheerfully around the yard. Dry contacts won’t respond to feverish blinking; they remain glued to my eyeballs. Finally, focus. The black button eyes of my sock monkey slippers stare up at me, as if to say, “Really, you’re wearing me outside?”

I look like someone’s crazy aunt on Christmas morning. A get-up destined for TLC’s What Not to Wear. Slippers. Green plaid flannel pajama pants. Red fleece robe, complete with a gingerbread house on the front pocket; gingerbread men and gumdrops line the hood (only $6.24! Justifiable?). Hair styled after Albert Einstein. I should really be embarrassed by this.

Eh. I’m up. I can revert to normalcy later.

run along, now.

2009-03-28T13:07:00.011-05:00

“Hi, sssorry, butwwwould you mind doing a sssurvey?” I asked thirty or so spandex-clad runners this morning. My mouth was numb. I couldn’t control the slurring. I sounded like I’d just left the dentist’s office, trying to make sense with Novocained chipmunk cheeks. I wandered around with my clipboard for two hours, asking questions like, “Have yourrrraced thisssrun before?”

I should’ve worn a ski mask—I’m sure I would’ve been a crowd favorite. In my two sweatshirts, both hoods up, I felt like the little boy from A Christmas Story who’s bundled in so much winter padding he can’t put his arms down. (Sidenote: that scene is hilarious—the poor kid falls over in the snow and, despite his desperate rolling around, he can't get back up. Bet he was warm, though.) Imagine my shock at finding a handful of runners in t-shirts and Nike shorts. A fairly insane choice—the draft must’ve been something fierce.

When people told me they were running the 10K, I’d congratulate them with, “Nicccce” or “Wow, that’sss hardcore!” In high school, my friend and I went on a totally unnecessary let’s-get-in-shape kick. It lasted maybe two weeks. We’d run around a park track for thirty minutes after drill team practice, and by run, I mean jog for two minutes and walk for eight; repeat. It didn’t take long before we decided on a better plan: to sit on a park bench and watch people run while we ate sno cones. Needless to say, I doubt I’ll ever run in a 5 or 10K fundraising event. I admire people who do, though. Props to those who ran in the brutally cold weather this morning—consider me impressed.

burning the razor.

2009-03-27T14:43:00.002-05:00

I remember when I was a wee sixth-grader, standing fully-clothed in the bathtub, shaving my skinny little legs for the first time. I spent at least an hour on each leg; the process would’ve been faster if I’d used tweezers. But, beautifying takes time. Besides, teenagers shave their legs. This was another monumental initiation into girl world—preceded by ear-piercing and followed by “glamorizing” with make-up. I was certain that shaving was by far the coolest thing in the whole world. Gosh, I was just so lucky to be a girl!

I use to idolize shaving. Shaving. Which takes extra time getting ready. Which nicks my legs. Which leaves behind razor burn. Which looks and feels like the work of fire ants.

Yes, I'm definitely lucky. With Ginger Spice, I say, "Girl Power!"

hunky teen heartthrob.

2009-03-26T13:35:00.001-05:00

Confession: I love—like really love—Zac Efron. I’ll provide a scene from January, as proof...

“Waitwaitwait!” I hastily slip the bobby pin from my hair and shake my bangs loose. Across the eyes, finger-styled. I fidget three feet away from Krista in anticipation. My shoulders shimmy, my hands flutter. Almost, almost! Quick pause. Zac’s epiphany moment sounds and I slide on polka-dot socks to the base of our purple leather couch. Zac sings “All I have to do is believe,” but I sing “All I have new so you see.” Can’t remember the next line either, but I’ve mastered the move. I drop to my knees and lift invisible sand from the hardwood. Sift it through my fingers. Just like Zac. A burst in tempo pops me back on my feet and I skip-leap around the room, pumping my fist sporadically in the air. I look over and meet my roommate’s half-amused, half-scared eyes.

I don’t know why I thought a dance demonstration after High School Musical’s end would be a good plan. My animated, spastic version of “Bet On It” was an adaptation from the HSM sequel—the golf course scene. Krista, still fairly new as my roommate, hadn’t seen it. My superstar moment should’ve been enough to ensure she never would. To my extreme relief, it wasn’t—we rented HSM2 the next night.

But seriously. Zac Efron. Boy can dance. And he’s just so pretty. I’m sure he wouldn’t love my choice terminology on that, but he is pretty. That Rolling Stone cover...mmm.

EDIT: Krista just informed me that Zacky-boy dropped out of Footloose. Nooooooooooooooo! No, no, no, no, NO! Nooo-oo-ooo-oooo. This is just terrible. Terrible, terrible, terrible. Maybe watching HSM3 will cheer me up. Yes, I own it. With pride.

they call it mastication.

2009-03-25T23:11:00.000-05:00

The word sounds provocative. Say it: "mastication." Sort of gritty, raunchy, scandalous. The real meaning—simply to chew on something—is almost disappointing. If I heard it while I was still in junior high, I'd probably find myself in a situation like this...

Sara sits quietly at the end of a long cafeteria table, staring at the lunch her mother packed for her that morning, the same as every morning and every lunch period. A boy, Freddie, turns around in his seat. The other boys giggle in anticipation.

Freddie spits out the question, "Are you masticating?" A peal of laughter erupts from his buddies. Extremely embarrassed, Sara mutters, "I...umm...n-n-no. I mean...what?" The color in her cheeks matches her pink and red speckled frames. Unfortunately, the glasses cover half her face and magnify her blush.

Freddie can barely manage to explain through his laughter that "it just means chewing, geez! Don't have a panic attack."

"Girls..."

The meaning of "mastication" is nothing like what a junior higher expects. I still think it's a weird word. Truth be told, I tend to lean more toward the giggling boy reaction when I read or hear it. As poet Ogden Nash said, "You are only young once, but you can stay immature indefinitely." Thanks, Ogden, I think I will.

kneaded some love.

2009-03-25T22:22:00.000-05:00

I’m not the pampery type. The thought of a stranger rubbing his or her digits all over my bare skin has always been far from tempting. Last Thursday, I momentarily forgot this. I let a friend sucker me into my first massage session with two words: “my treat.”

“I’m a lover,” my masseuse reassured me as she swooped over the bed, pantomiming the press and pull she was about to conduct on my body. “I get so into it—so close. No one’s complained yet. I just have so much love to give!” She dimmed the lights, whispering, “There, that’s better. Just slip out of your clothes and under the covers—I’ll be right back.” Before closing the door, she winked at me.

A thickset, fifty-something woman batted her lashes at me, right after dishing instructions to get naked and wait for her.

I don’t think so, lady.

Despite my instinctive desire to run-run-run, I stayed. The heated bed lulled me into immobility. My masseuse slipped back in, but I didn’t hear her. She worked her palms firmly over my shoulders, down to my love-handles. Felt like she was kneading dough. Felt. So. Good.

“I hate to wake you,” my masseuse cooed an hour later. “You look like a princess, or an angel. How do you feel?”

“Mmgoodnice...mhmm.”

In other words, I’d definitely enlist the matronly “lover” as my every-morning masseuse. Or at least I would if I was making bank. Unfortunately, babysitting money can’t go that far. Unfair life.