In which I slept through a big palaver

Disclaimer: I've been watching too much "Top Gear," so beware of random British slang...

Either there is something magical and amazing about the locks on my house, or those of us who live/visit the house are total idiots. I've locked myself out before (as noted in an earlier entry), which was embarrassing enough. However, I also managed to break in, which means I'm not a complete loss. Various other roommates haven't been so crafty and therefore resorted to calling for help, etc.

When it comes to getting locked out in style, though, my roommate's unnamed boyfriend, however, takes the cake.

(He's not unnamed because this is the Internet and I don't want to make fun of him — he's unnamed because I really don't know his name. Heck, I don't even know what he looks like. I just know that he stands on my porch and blows his cigarette smoke into my room, that he smokes weed in my roommate's room, and that he and my roommates often do things which I — a little Mormon innocent — don't want to know about. But I digress...)

(Here's another disclaimer: Although the house IS supposed to be LDS standards — no smoking, no boys, no alcohol, etc. — this roommate hasn't quite grasped the concept.)

So occasionally I work night shifts. They're not real night shifts where I get home at dawn, though — they're more like semi-night shifts. However, if I work more than two in a row, my bedtime gradually gets later... and later... and later... By the end of a long stretch of night shifts my internal clock is so screwed up that I'm convinced day is night and night is day.

So, as this story begins, early one Saturday morning I found myself coming home from a night shift feeling completely, totally awake. As I am wont to do, I therefore began wasting time.

2:00 a.m. - Ah-hah! Time for dinner!

2:30 a.m. - I'll just finish this episode of "Top Gear."

3:00 a.m. - Ice cream sounds super good right now...

3:30 a.m. - I should brush my teeth

4:00 a.m. - But I've only got two chapters left in this book...

You get the picture.

As I was brushing my teeth — around 4 a.m. — I heard someone come out of my roommate's room, walk out the front door, get into her car, and drive away. I found the early-morning drive a little odd, but I didn't dwell on it. Going to bed was more important, so that's what I did.

BUT

At 7 a.m. I was awakened by furious pounding on my front door.

"Girls! Wake up! Wake up right now!" someone shouted.

You know that moment of confusion where you can literally feel the individual brain cells firing up one by one? That's what I began to experience. I cracked opened my eyes and tried to orient myself as the room came into focus.

The pounding and shouting continued.

"We know you're home! Open the door! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!"

My poor, overtired brain began to function a little further, and I suddenly started to panic about my car. I had parked it in front of the neighbor's house (since boyfriend was in my normal spot, dang him) and I was suddenly hit with a wave of panic. What if they were towing my car!? Oh no!!!

But then — through my open window — I heard the pounding stop and a conversation begin.

"I know she's in there," someone said. "Her window is open."

 "Where is she?" a girl asked.

"In this front room. I know she's home." the first voice answered.

With those sentences, my concern about my car disintegrated and I began to feel far, far more concerned about my safety. Who were these yelling, pounding strangers standing on my front porch and talking about me?! AHHHHHH!!!

Even though I still didn't know what was going on, I climbed out of bed and peeked out the window to see police cars parked in front of my house. My brain did this: 

WHAT THE HECK!!?!!?!!! 

In reality, there were only three (THREE?!) squad cars, but to me, it looked like this:

And yes, in case you're curious, police cars really do park at odd angles. The movies are right.

Now feeling completely freaked out, I threw on some clothes and ran out the front door. Three cops were standing at the end of the driveway and chatting. They turned when I came outside.

"Are you (roommate's name)?" one of them asked.

 "No," I said. "Uh...what's going on?"

According to the police, my roommate's boyfriend had locked himself outside, and one of our neighbors had gotten suspicious and called the cops.

"Oh," I said.

"You are a REALLY sound sleeper," an officer said.

"Er, yeah," I said. "I got off of work late..."

Technically that wasn't true — I had gotten off late, but I had also wasted eons of time faffing around. However, the police didn't need to know that.

Then I went back inside and — naturally — updated my Facebook status before going back to sleep. It's the 21st century — that's what we do. I should've tweeted about it too, but that was too much of a leap for my overwrought mind.

(I also didn't take a picture of my house surrounded by cops, and I've been berated for that by a number of people. Next time YOUR morning is interrupted by three (THREE?!) squad cars and a lot of door-pounding, see how YOU react! Ha!)

In the wake of the whole adventure, I subsequently got to hear different versions of the story from a bunch of different roommates. None of them match up. Funny how that works. 

My version: Boyfriend left the house at 4 a.m., got in my roommate's car, and drove off. Later returned to the house, greeted the cops, pounded on the door, and eventually was allowed into the house, where he ran to his girlfriend's room with an incredibly frustrated, "Babe!"

My version is clearly the most boring, seeing as how I slept through the majority of the fun.

Roommate/Boyfriend's version: Boyfriend left the house to have a cigarette on the porch. He smoked his cigarette and then went to come back inside, but I had locked him out. (EH?! ME?! Uh, no. Our door locks automatically when you close it, thanks very much.) Boyfriend therefore decided he'd be stuck outside of a while, so he climbed into girlfriend's car to spend the rest of the night there. But then nosy neighbor called the police, who swooped down on him. Boyfriend tried to explain that he had locked himself out by using his bare feet and lighter as evidence, but the mean cops still searched and interrogated him. Finally they pounded on the door to try to get someone to come and identify him.

(I guess it's a good thing I didn't open the door first, since I don't know what he looks like.) 

Downstairs roommmate's version as related by other roommate: Boyfriend blew lots of smoke into downstair's roommate's room before discovering he had locked himself out. Then cops came and pounded on the door and shouted. Then downstairs roommate and visiting boyfriend went upstairs to see what they wanted. Cops asked them to identify boyfriend, which they did. Then they allowed boyfriend to go into the house. Cops said neighbors in the area had reported a theft, and boyfriend fit the profile of the criminal, which is why three (THREE?!) officers came to the scene.

All in all, it was a giant mess that could've been avoided had boyfriend not been struck by a sudden urge to smoke (or drive the car) at 4 a.m. Of course, it could've also been avoided had boyfriend not stayed the night at our house in the first place, but that's an outrageous suggestion, I'm sure.

On the upside, it did make for a fantastic Facebook status and it did make downstairs roommate angry enough to lay down the law with roommate and boyfriend. No more stinking up my room with his cigarette smoke, no more marijuana, no more sleepovers...

Yes, the whole mess was a good thing. You know what would've made it even better, though?

Not sleeping through most of it. Daggnabit.

The secret life of an American Jackie

I don't get embarrassed easily. In my four years of pageanting, judges would often ask, "What's your most embarrassing moment?" and I'd have to really struggle to come up with something.

There was that one time the clown at Lagoon proposed to me, and then clung to my leg and howled when I told him I was too young to get married.

"NOOOOOOOO! JACKIE, DON'T LEAVE ME!!!"

But that was more flattering than embarrassing, really.

Or there was that time when I somehow got a plastic bag stuck to my ballet slipper right before going onstage in "The Nutcracker." Having the bag stuck to my foot wasn't as embarrassing as having my ballet teacher ask me afterward if it was toilet paper, though, if I'm honest.

See, my philosophy is this: Embarrassing things happen, and then you move on.

But, in case you were wondering, there is one thing that can make me blush and — to use a young adult fiction phrase — writhe in embarrassment.

(Well, as two boys from high school may recall, if you grab me in a giant bear hug and then and jump up and down while singing happy birthday, I will also blush, but that's a bit of a tangent...)

No, the one way to actually embarrass me is to talk about my writing.

As you may be able to guess (from the size of these posts, for example) I like writing. I like it a lot. My mom once told me that I started out life writing. If my parents made me angry, I wrote them a note. If my brothers ticked me off, I wrote them a note. If I then felt guilty about being ticked off, I wrote yet another note. The written word has always been my friend; during my last finals week in college I wrote 26 essay pages in two class periods...and it was fantastic.

The thing is — my coworker and I were talking about this the other day (he gets his kicks out of analyzing my twisted mind) — I don't mind letting people read what I write EXCEPT when it comes to creative fiction.

To be honest, it doesn't make any sense. I always wanted to be an author. The highlight of fourth grade was when my homeroom teacher, Mrs. Drake, told me she thought I had the talent to get published. One summer I wrote a piece about my hometown for the local newspaper and won tickets to Lagoon. I vaguely remember winning a short story contest in my town's summer festival, too. (Of course, that's something of a miracle, considering I can't write ANYTHING short nowadays. You should see me try to text...or use Twitter...ugh.)

Along that line, the best memory of my seventh grade year was winning the "On-Site Writing Competition" that was part of a region-wide arts competition between schools. They ushered us into a room, gave us three pictures to look at (a blackboard with writing on it, a covered bridge, and I think a spider) and told us to write a story. I remember being intimidated by the whole process. I was surrounded by eighth graders who were constantly praised for their writing, I was going through my awkward "gee, I don't think I'm pretty so I'll dress like a boy" phase, and my best friend (who I always competed with, especially in terms of writing) was sitting right next to me.

During the awards ceremony for the arts competition, to my utter, total, and complete surprise, my name was called as the 1st place winner and I got to stand up in front of the entire school to claim my prize. That was brilliant. I'm still proud of that, ten-odd years later.

Writing-wise, everything changed during my sophomore year of high school. After registering, I soon discovered that my "creative writing class" was actually a newspaper writing class. Even though I didn't want to take a newspaper class — at the time I was still too shy to talk, make phone calls, or converse with adults — I've never been the type of person to give up. My teacher probably made some comment about how hard the class would be, and all I need to get fired up and angry is that exact sort of a challenge. Before long I learned how to be a newspaper reporter. After two years as editor-in-chief, I decided to pursue journalism in college as well.

So what does this all have to do with embarrassment? Well, I'll tell you: I've written a book. Wait, scratch that. I've written three. Er, scratch that, too. I've finished three and I've got three more in the working stages... The problem is, only a few people have seen them, and unless I suddenly become significantly less embarrassed, it may stay that way forever.

See, when it comes to journalism, I don't mind if people read what I write. Here are some examples: here, here, here, here, here, or here. (That last one was particularly brilliant, because KSL stole my information and did a broadcast news segment on it the next day, leave me torn between annoyance and pure pride.) And obviously I don't care if people read what I blog. (But since nobody reads this anyway, I'm safe there. Whew.)

BUT when it comes to my creative writing...the thought of people reading that is embarrassing with a capital E. Of course, I've let a few people read my books, but each time I include a list of apologies. This is part of the actual email I sent my best friends along with a copy of my first book:

"Basically, the story is a retelling of the Cinderella story (as if there aren't enough of those in the world). It's mushy, and predictable, and kitschy (which means "content created to appeal to popular or undiscriminating taste." Poetic.) In other words, the "real authors" in my BYU creative writing class would hate it. I thought it was charming when I was writing it, but reading over it so many times has convinced me that it's mainstream mediocre fiction. But don't let that cloud your judgment...bwa-ha-ha-ha...

If you have time to read it someday, I would be really happy, even though I'm going against my better judgment by sending it to you in the first place. (Nobody reads my work - I like it better that way.) Let me know how you feel about it, and what I could maybe do to fix it...and all that..."

That's not even false modesty. That's really how I feel. After many days of soul-searching I've decided that I don't particularly like to talk about my writing mainly because EVERYONE thinks they're a writer, and I fear (deep down) that I'm just another face in the crowd. (Or would it be "pen on the page"? "Manuscript in the mail"? "Author in the bread line"? Hmm.)

Someday, though, I'll get over it. At least, I intend to get over it. Really. I'm serious...Yeah. 

I have to get over it for three main reasons.

One: I crave praise. Who doesn't? It's a human characteristic, and I'll admit that I'm infected. If Stephanie Meyer can get published (c'mon, folks..."Twilight"? Really?!) surely I can as well.

Two: Shan, I turn green when I remember that you're going to be a published author, and although green is one of my better colors (heh) it's not a color I enjoy being on a regular basis.

And three: My poor characters are rotting away with no one to appreciate them. I've got enough material in my head to write...how many books? Quick count...

1. Brianda. Royal. Jeremy.

2. Richard Jones and Cassie. Oh, and Owen!

3. Channer, Brian, Richens, and about 20 students who need renamed...what a chore.

4. Triad!

5. And the sequel to that...

6. London. David. C & S. Bugs!

7. Taylor and Jace. And Dutch, the coolest character ever.

8. Wait, going back with Kiff and company, too.

9. And their sequel as well.

See? It's getting outrageous.

Until I get brave enough to let lots of people read my creative stuff, though, I'll have to continue letting people read my books one individual at a time.

And then when other people ask me to tell them what my books are about, I'll hem and haw, and then change the subject... 

And then I'll crack jokes to distract them the next time it comes up... 

And then I'll invent flimsy excuses about how "it needs editing still" when they ask to read it... 

And then when Shan's mom starts gushing about my book in front of lots of people, I'll continue blushing and "writhing in embarrassment" while I secretly eat up every bit of praise she hands me.

And then in the end, I'll still wish for more.

Ah, the confused existence of an embarrassed writer.

How I learned to stop worrying and love the cowlick

The title is a lie — I will never love my cowlick. It was just too good of a title to pass up.

So I've got this cowlick. My mom says it's hereditary and everyone in my family has one, but guess what? She lies. Nobody in the family has one quite like mine.

For those of you who might not know what a cowlick is, let me explain. Or better still, let my handy-dandy Google skills explain: "A cowlick is simply a shock of hair which looks as if the big, wet tongue of a cow has licked it. It grows in a different direction from the rest of the hair around it, so that it might look as thought it is sticking up or out. The term dates from the late 16th century, when R. Haydocke used it in his translation of Lomazzo: "The lockes or plaine feajes if haire called cow-lickes, are made turning vpwards." 

That's clear as mud, right? 

Apparently a cowlick occurs when hair "streams" form a spiral pattern. And, apparently, (this was new knowledge) most cowlicks swirl in a clockwise direction. 

My Google definitions, therefore, have taught me that not only do I spend each day walking around looking like a cow licked my head, but I also do it while sporting a cowlick THAT GOES THE WRONG DIRECTION. Ugh. 

See, the problem with my cowlick isn't that it exists. It's the location. And as any realtor will tell you, it's all about location, location, location. 

Most people think of cowlicks as being like this:

As my ever-so-helpful and oh-so-professional arrows point out, those cowlicks all appear to be at the back of the head, which would naturally lead you to ask, "So, what's the big deal?" A cowlick at the back of the head would not be a big deal, and are, in fact, quite common. For a girl, the sheer weight of her hair ought to weigh down and hide the cowlick, right? So I shouldn't whine.

Wrong. 

Because my cowlick isn't at the back of my head. My cowlick is more like this:

 

Right smack at the front of my face. And going counterclockwise. And therefore you can't possibly understand what sort of trials my cowlick has put me through... 

The problems with having a cowlick front and center began to emerge early in my youth. A short study of my childhood pictures will quickly inform you that I had the strangest hairstyles around, courtesy of my cowlick. I didn't know how to do hair anyway, but having to wrestle with a cowlick magnified the problem. And being the only girl in school unable to carry off any of the popular hair looks through the years was quite wearing on my self-esteem. 

Remember this popular 1990s poofy-bang look? 

 

Impossible. 

Braids? 

Not happening. Middle parts were out of the question, and braids (and pigtails) look ridiculous when off-center. 

Swoopy bangs?

Yeah right.

Blunt bangs?

 

Keep dreaming. 

The best I could manage was a mix of blunt bangs with an inadvertent poof in the middle (circa. 4th grade) or an ill-conceived attempt at swoopy bangs as a college freshman. It has been a never-ending struggle. 

Up until I turned 12, I allowed my mom to cut my hair. She cut all of our hair — it was the totally normal thing for her to do. The only problems were (a) she didn't really know how to cut hair for a girl (she's brilliant at cutting hair for boys — having five sons will do that for a mother — but for a girl? Not so much...) and (b) no matter how much you cut, bangs with a cowlick will NEVER END UP STRAIGHT. 

Still, the day before I was due to graduate from primary and move into young women's, my mom gave it everything she had. She WAS going to cut my bangs straight, even if it killed her. 

And the result? 

It was something like this:

Obviously I never let my mom cut my hair again. 

Years after this traumatic experience, I've had to admit that even going to professional hairstylists isn't the answer when it comes to dealing with my epic cowlick. They don't know how to cut it either, mainly because they always think they do. Our conversations go like this: 

Jackie: I've got this cowlick right here. It's impossible to work with.

Hairstylist: Oh yeah, I see it. 

Jackie: You have to cut it less over here and a little more over here, and then you have to make sure it's this specific length. Any longer and it starts to swoop here.

Hairstylist: Oh yeah, I see it. 

Jackie: No, seriously.

Hairstylist: Oh yeah. 

Jackie: I don't think you're really listening.

Hairstylist: Oh yeah. 

Jackie: Okay... 

Luckily, my cowlick grows at a Harry Potter-type pace. The hairstylist can cut it in some bizarre and terrible way (I'm talking to you, girl who tried to feather it) and their fruitless efforts will be covered up within a day or two. Now I let them do whatever they want and then fix it myself afterward. It's a good system. 

There are times when I start to feel cocky, like I have some measure of control over my cowlick. I have, for instance, learned the proper way to cut it — shorter on the left, long in the middle, longest on the right. It's a science, really. But the last time I started to get cocky I attempted, once again, to grow swoopy bangs. Unfortunately, the left side began to stick straight out while the right side just poked my eyes. Surrendering to the inevitable, my bangs quickly met my scissors. 

Enduring 24 years of failure has helped me learn to stop worrying... But I will never love the cowlick. 

I'll just whine about it instead.

 

As the doorknob turns

I don't spend all my time locking myself in and out of things. Really.

If you were to read the post I wrote about locking myself in elevators and out of my house, you might be inclined to disagree, but honestly, it's not as bad as it sounds. Out of the 8,700-odd days that I've been alive, I've locked myself out of the house a handful of times and in elevators twice. And I've never locked my keys in my car, so that's not bad. The balance of days where I remain free of entrapment problems far outweigh the days where I end up in trouble.

Having said that, though, I'll now relate another story where I magically locked myself out of my bedroom...

Naturally.

I live in a ghetto little house with four other girls. One day while I was at work I got a text from one of these girls saying simply, "Just so you know, I got a cat." My first reaction was this: "Oh yay! A cat! I've been wanting a cat since I moved in!" My second reaction was this: "Wait...the landlord said no pets... Oh well." And my third reaction was this: "Hold on...I've got a fish! In a bowl! With no lid! Oh no!"

(Surely when the landlord said, "No pets," he didn't mean fish, right? That's the assumption I've been going off of for three-ish years.)

The fish is named Lee Carter and he technically isn't mine. He belongs to my roommate, but I've been fish-sitting him for ages now. He's survived being ogled by multiple cats, cleaning checks, and two deaths. He's named after Lee Carter (or, with the appropriate English accent: Lee Cah-tah) from this movie:

Anyway. Tangent...

So I got home that night and promptly closed my bedroom door. The cat proved to be pretty stupid by nature, and it took him about three days and numerous visits to my bedroom before he realized I was keeping his own private sushi stash swimming around on my desk. After that, I knew that Lee Carter's home would have to undergo an upgrade (i.e. a big boy tank with a lid).

The next morning I got up and prepared to go to work. In order to keep the cat out of my room while I spent eight hours sitting at my desk downtown, I carefully closed the door, putting my heavy makeup box as close against it as I could get. My doorknob hadn't worked properly since I moved into my ghetto house in November, so without something leaning against it, the cat could simply walk into it and it would open. Feeling pleased with my solution, I pulled my slightly smashed hand out of the tiny space left between my makeup box and the door jamb and went to work.

Hours later I returned home to find that my mysterious roommate (who appears once in a blue moon, takes a shower, and then vanishes again) had been home. She had indeed taken a shower and then subsequently closed all the doors to our little hallway, making the humidity pile up (does humidity pile up?) until the air had the same consistency as a sauna. (Does air have consistency?) (Meh. Whatevs.)

Anyway, so after airing out the hallway I walked up to my room and grabbed the doorknob to open the door. However, when I pushed, nothing happened. I tried again. Still nothing. I kept trying over and over, but the door still didn't budge.

Now, none of this made any sense. The door should have just opened with a push like it always did. It didn't have a lock, so that couldn't have been the problem. The knob turned just fine, too. And my makeup box was not that heavy. The only thing I could think of that might cause this problem was the humidity. Humidity can make doors swell, so I diagnosed the door problem and settled down in the living room to wait until the door returned to its normal size.

Two hours...three hours...four hours later, I was still sitting in the living room and I was fresh out of patience. After warning my roommate downstairs that she would soon be hearing some odd banging noises from above her room, I began attempting to force my door open.

As per a suggestion from my dad, I sprayed the door with Pam. (Yeah, seriously.) It made the door greasy, but it refused to budge. Grasping the doorknob with one hand, I threw myself against the door over and over, resulting in nothing more than tiny little jewel-shaped bruises on my bum from the jewels on my pants pockets. So then (again, from my dad) I got a chair and ran down the hall, pushing it into the door like a battering ram. The door still didn't move.

Open up, you dang door!

I couldn't go through the window because it only opened about three inches on a crank system, so that was out. I used a wedge to try to force the door away from the doorjamb. No dice. I tried to see if the doorknob was the real problem using a credit card. It slid all the way through but did nothing else. My mom suggested blasting the door with a blow dryer in case humidity really was the problem, but the blow dryer was in the bedroom... I thought about pulling the hinges out, but they were on the inside of the door too, so that was also a no-go from the start. I sat down on the floor and kicked against the door. That only managed to slide my jewel-shaped bruises backward on my Pam-y floor.

In the end, I gave up. I surrendered to the inevitable and decided to sleep on the couch. Setting the alarm on my nearly-dead phone (the charger was also in the bedroom...) I prayed that I would wake up in time to make it to my 7 a.m. work shift and then spent the night's remaining 3 hours or so turning on the space heater (again, to hopefully fix the door swelling — if that really was the problem) whenever the power strip it was connected to would surge and flip off and waking up to see if it was time to go to work.

The next morning I went to Walmart to buy a new shirt (as my clothes were locked in the bedroom — along with everything else) and then called my landlord from work. He came to fix the problem, which turned out to be, naturally, the doorknob.

It randomly decided to start working — even though it had never worked before — and then went the extra mile by deciding to break. Stupid doorknob.

On the bright side (because there's always a bright side), there was absolutely no way the dumb cat was going to break in there and eat my fish. Lee Carter had never been so safe in his entire life.

The oblivious observer

I pretend to be oblivious. Frequently. And when I say frequently, I mean literally all the time.

Please tell me I'm not the only one who does this...

My friend once told me I'm the dumbest smart person she's ever met. (Which was fine, because I once told her she had sausage toes. With friends like these...) There was a lot of truth to what she said. I have a tendency to miss common sense things. For instance, I thought for years (and years, and years) that St. Ives lotion was actually "Stives" lotion. It was like an epiphany when I realized otherwise.

And you should have heard the mockery in the newsroom when I referred to Kanye West as "Cain West." Apparently not knowing how to say his name was a big deal, but I still don't understand why. Has he ever done anything important...ever? Why should I waste the brain space needed to properly pronounce his name?

Sometimes my natural dumb moments cause me to sound and act like a beast, but I really don't mean to. It happened at Walmart a couple of weeks ago.

What I heard as I was leaving the store:

Random man: "You ready?"

Me: "Yep."

What actually happened as I was leaving the store:

Random man: "You're pretty."

Me: "Yep."

I felt bad about that for quite a while.

But most of the time — when I'm not engaged in being a dork — I spend my time being invisible and observant. Much like Mia in the first half of "The Princess Diaries," I'm so good at disappearing into the background that I have literally been sat on. (By Ron Paul, even, but that's another story.)

Being invisible does have its benefits. I get to spend a lot of my time observing rather than engaging, and you learn a lot about people this way. I've got very solid opinions on which people in Congress are lazy, entitled jerks — and which ones are nice, hard workers — based on observing their actions when I worked in D.C. 

Giant jerk

Very nice guy

Observing means that I usually know heaps of office gossip, and I always know what's going on in every conversation around me. I can jump from conversation to conversation without even thinking about it. I may be talking to some and then mid-sentence I'll answer a question from another conversation taking place four cubicles over. It's quite unnerving for the people I'm originally talking to. Bwa-ha-ha-ha...

But even though I love observing and I do it all the time, sometimes I act oblivious on purpose. It drives my mom CRAZY. 

The root of my obliviousness comes down to time. I guard my time very closely. Time is money, after all, and since I'm not very good at guarding my money, I have to guard something. I'm either selfish with or jealous of time, and I don't like to waste it. I get annoyed if people in front of me drive too slowly, or if I have to sit in a worthless meeting, or if people discuss philosophy and refuse to actually accomplish something useful. 

So when I run into people who I know — know without a doubt — will waste my time, I often pretend I don't see them. If I don't feel like bothering with worthless small talk, I won't. If a boy is blatantly trying to get my attention and I'm not in the mood, I pretend I don't notice.

Tell me I'm not alone! Other people MUST do this too!

When the guy who got on the elevator after me today remarked to his friend that I smelled nice, I pretended to be oblivious, but I totally noticed. (It's that overpowering scent of Dove shampoo — it smells weird, but it sure does lovely things to my hair.) When another guy on a second elevator trip today attempted to catch my eye, I noticed it too. (But a one-floor elevator jaunt is not enough to build a lasting flirtation on, thanks.)

Now, admitting that I sometimes purposely ignore people doesn't mean that it's always on purpose. Don't get offended if I've done it to you! My aversion to wearing my contacts or glasses means that I pass a lot of people without even noticing. When I walk anywhere I keep my eye on the goal — classroom, parking lot, building, etc. — and I ignore everything else. I zoomed past many a friend during college because of that. Sorry, folks... I probably didn't mean it!

(Or did I? Hmmm...)

Maybe I should come with a warning label: If I'm not talking (or even if I am) I'm listening, observing, gathering, and noticing. If you think I'm oblivious, I'm probably not. Unless I am. Because sometimes I am. But not always... 

How's that for confusing? Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!

Jackie according to the Internet

When I was working as a journalist in D.C., I got to meet one of the guys who invented the Internet.

Al Gore

No, not THAT guy. (Political humor, har-dee-har-har.) I met one of the guys who ACTUALLY invented the Internet. It was pretty cool.

Anyway, so I've been thinking about the Internet and how it has changed our lives forever. That may lead you to believe that I'll be going on a serious, philosophical tangent with this blog post...

NOT! Hahahaha!

Setting aside all the practical uses of the Internet, this post is about one specific Internet phenomenon: personality quizzes. Don't pretend you've never taken them...

How did we ever know who we really were before the Internet was invented to tell us?!

So here it is — many silly quizzes and videos later — Jackie according to the Internet.

How many of these quizzes and their accompanying descriptions are accurate in any way?

You may never know...

 What Disney princess are you?

In all the times I've been suckered into taking one of these quizzes, I've always been Belle. (You know — loner, nerdy, bookworm, etc.) Not this time, however. The official Disney quiz has declared that I am ... Cinderella!

Remember this pose, Shannen? What are the odds?!

Supposedly I share many admirable qualities with the beautiful Cinderella; clever, loyal, and hard-working. "Kindness is your number one priority even when others aren't so nice or situations test your good nature ... You and Cinderella are sweet, determined, hopeful, and never question that someday your dreams will come true — and no one deserves it more!"

Of course, the fact that I supposedly share all these virtues with Cinderella makes it all the more amusing that my purported evil Disney alter ego is... Lady Tremaine!

I see the resemblance...

The quiz didn't actually tell me why, but it did say that I help kids learn to love their birth parents as a way to avoid stepparents. I guess that's good? Would that make me an evil hero?

Anyway...

Since my current obsession is Robin Hood (Errol Flynn, etc. Although, the one with Papyrus in the opening credits? I turned that one off....) I figured I'd better take a quiz based on the BBC series. And it said I am ... Will Scarlett!

"The gang's chief engineer whose brilliant designs are key to many a Robin Hood plan. You are a hard worker, quiet and shy, and often the voice of reason. You are committed and hopeful, and you desperately want to put the world back together as it was."

Since I'm a longtime Will Scarlett fan, that's totally cool with me. Besides, who wouldn't want to be compared to someone with those eyebrows?

Continuing on the Robin Hood vein, to truly discover Jackie we should look to other literature quizzes...

My quiz tells me I'm a born leader and a good fighter. Who knew?! It also said "you are the one usually put in charge of things and you aren't afraid to do it."

I guess if you want to talk about people who aren't afraid to be independent, the quintessential classical character would be a certain lady who is well known to all Jane Austen fans...

The quiz describes Elizabeth Bennet as representative of "what most women would like to become: strong, independent, and loyal." Of course, the quiz won't let those compliments go to my head, as it points out that I also have a "stubborn will of iron and a clinging to first impressions."

Hmmm...

Now, not that I've taken many a sorting quiz in my 24 years on Earth, but needless to say, the results this time around were surprising. Could it be that I've changed from being a persistent Ravenclaw to... dare I say it... Hufflepuff?!

Sure, being "loyal, dependable, and hardworking" are good things, but seriously... Hufflepuff? Ah well, it's nice to know at least one Harry Potter thing will never change...

Being "book smart, moral, and cool under pressure" is great, but my favorite part of this description was when it said, "You're way more mature than those around you, and you always seem to know what's best."

That's right. Listen to my genius.

Of course, that sentence right there also feeds into the fact that I'm apparently the first Doctor — "grumpy, proud, but really just an old softy."

And because I'm like the first Doctor, it seems "intelligence is no barrier" to me. 

(Or, as the quiz itself says, "inteliegence is no barrier." Ah, the Internet...)

In the Star Wars-verse I'm supposedly R2-D2. Why? Because apparently what I lack in height and communication skills, I make up for in industriousness, technical know-how and being there when others need me most.

Curse this all-knowing Internet! Making fun of my lack of height...

Now, how the Internet could tell me that I'm Princess Peach from "Mario" and Mal Reynolds from "Firefly" is a little baffling, but whatevs. Naturally the clash of being a "beautiful princess with not a bad bone in your body" and the "my way or the highway" shoot-first-ask-later Mal are smoothed over somehow. Internet tests couldn't possibly be wrong...

In terms of things that I can't change, apparently being born in October means that I'm a clairvoyant nature lover, a born leader, amiable (eh?!), more emotional than practical (no, seriously, eh?!), totally independent, clever, dedicated, and hard working. Having blue eyes means I'm very attractive, adorable, and I love to make new friends.

(Okay, I'm starting to think the Internet doesn't know me at all...)

In the only scientific-ish test I took, it appears my real age is not 24, but is rather 8. The test isn't saying that I'm immature — it's saying that I'm healthy. So if I started exercising, do you think I could get the number below zero? Could my so-called "virtual age" actually be dead? Hmmm...

If the Internet hasn't given you a clear picture of who I really am, I'll also bow to the comparison skills of my long-time college roommate Shannen. Throughout our college experience she compared to me numerous people from TV shows. For some reason they were often large black men, but maybe I just give off that vibe...

Jackie according to Shannen:

Emerson Cod from "Pushing Daisies"

Stanley from "The Office"

House from (naturally) "House"

And last (but never least) Kat Warbler from "The Class"

I've also gotten some Sue Sylvester from "Glee" comparisons, but who knows why...

To sum it up: Jackie according to the Internet is kind, sweet, determined, hopeful, evil, quiet, shy, the voice of reason, a born leader, a good fighter, strong, independent, loyal, stubborn, book smart, moral, mature, grumpy, proud, "inteliegent," short, industrious, good natured, eight, clairvoyant, amiable, emotional, clever, adorable, and friendly, with touches of Emerson, Stanley, House, Kat, and Sue.

 The one unifying factor in Internet personality quizzes is that they somehow end up making us feel complimented. That's probably why we take them — they make us feel good about ourselves. But do they really tell us who we are?

Probably not.

So, in a world of Internet quizzes, pop culture, and TV comparisons, my own description of what I'm really like — according to me, and no one else — can be summed up in one word:

Joel.

An emotional void, dry, and long-suffering...

Which, Shannen, makes you either Tom Servo or Crow...