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.