An alumnus with an axe to grind

February 29, 5:08:25 p.m.: The professor just called me at work and threatened to sue me for slander, so I'm removing part of my introduction. He also said, "I know your bosses."

Update: Due to the fact that the professor actually contacted my employer and out of respect for the company I work for, I removed this post. If you want to know more, contact me.

Soul mates

So I have this theory — because I have theories on everything — that people are attracted to certain characteristics for a reason.

This theory has been carefully developed from a mix of silly romantic fancies about true love and soul mates, and the (probably) heretical doctrine of the Mormon cult classic, "Saturday's Warrior." 

And now… to engage in a little tongue-in-cheekery… 

I have this idea that we're here on earth looking for the one — the right one, the special one, the one who completes you — and I also have this twisted idea that we know who that person is. This (in my mind) explains why we are attracted to certain traits that other people might not find
attractive. Why else would I be attracted to certain types of noses? Why would Shannen be attracted to certain types of bone structure? Why do other people look at teeth, or eyes, or dimples, or body type first? There must be a reason for our preferences, right?

I'm telling you, this theory totally makes sense. The answer is soul mates. We're looking for the person we instinctively know we're supposed to be with.

And since now I’m an ancient 25-year-old, I've decided it's time to start looking for that dang soul mate. Therefore, I've put together a brilliant way to identify what he will look like, which will naturally make the hunt much easier. 

So, to start, we'll begin with Mark Hildreth's structure. He's both delicate and manly; strong, but not lineman-ish. I approve.

Then, since I’m attracted to noses (I hate mine, so I simply MUST marry a handsome nose), my soul mate will need to have the perfect nose. This means throwing in a little Rupert Evans.

Obviously my guy will need eyes, so I think we'll go with Henry Cavill eyes — blue or thereabouts. I always favor lighter over darker.

In terms of hair, I like it longish and dark. My brothers bemoan my adoration of "1995 hair," but that's how it is. If more boys at BYU would ditch the missionary haircuts and let their hair grow a little (a la Riley Nelson) more of them would graduate with a wife.

Hmmm. That was a smidge off-topic… 

Let's go with Zachary Levi hair. Dark, curly or straight, and lovely. A little like Josh Groban, only less homeless looking.

And finally, my future husband is going to need lips. For this, I'll have to go with the cheeky, roguish grin and dimples of a certain Ewan McGregor.

Let's see…

I think that's all…

Yep, let's mix it up a little…

Hmmm….

There.

Drumroll, please

This is my future husband, based 100% on my theory of natural attraction: 

Gee. I'd better get hunting...

Or… 

I'd gladly take the perfection of James Purefoy and skip the hunting part altogether. Beautiful, charismatic, and pretty much awesome.

Oh yes.

Characters = disobedient little buggers. Or not.

"My characters won't do what I want!"

Don't even pretend you've never heard that before. It's a phrase I don't understand, and for which I blame kitschy romance novelists — the same ones I usually blame for everything.

"They won't do what I want!" was the phrase that kept me convinced I wasn't a REAL writer for a long time. Whenever I wrote stories, my characters did exactly what I wanted. I never had any rebellion in the ranks. If I wanted the characters to go left, they went left. If I wanted them to go right, they went right. If I wanted them to grow wings, run into the air while clutching on a cellphone, and then land in the fairy realm, they would.

(Of course, I've never asked them to do that, so maybe I'm just making stuff up now...)

Either way, this idea that characters were supposed to be rebellious people who torture an author all the way through a story confused me greatly. Since my characters have never done that, I just assumed I wasn't a real author, and that I would never be able to write a book and get it published. I figured that my characters, in comparison to the apparently self-willed characters other authors invented, must be bland, dull, and boring.

If everyone else has characters who obey, does that mean I'm doing it wrong? I'm writing wrong! I'm a wrong writer! The horrors!

My dear Watson, who happens to be a real author with a book and everything (see here) wrote her first book (did I mention that you can find it here?) around the same time I was writing mine. She finished hers first and succeeded in getting it to a publisher while mine continues to sit in my hard drive. C'est la vie.

BUT, a couple of months ago, Shannen wrote this piece on her blog that reminded me of this whole inner struggle I had with characters who did EXACTLY WHAT I TOLD THEM TO. Luckily, since I personally witnessed the writing process of another writer, I'm convinced that I'm not "wrong." I'm just "different."

(There — doesn't that make it sound better?)

Around the time Shannen wrote that post, she texted me something like, "I just figured out how my book is going to end!" This was the book she was like, two chapters, away from finishing.

I went, "WHAAAAAAT?!"

Every writer has a different process, and the fact that Shannen (and I'm sure other writers with disobedient characters) make things up as they go along blows my poor little mind. I've never been able to make up stories as I go. It's not my style. Maybe my characters all obey because their storylines are computed, arranged, and debated before I even bother writing anything down. (Seriously, if I die tomorrow, about 9 fully written books die with me.)

For me, the writing process begins with just one scene. The best way to describe it is like a seed — one tiny idea gets planted, and then I build on it mentally, bit by bit, until suddenly I've got an entire story. Then I have to go through the trouble of writing it down and tying the scenes all together.

Or — for a visual — it's like making a clay creation. (This is what I do when I'm supposed to be editing)

Start with cardboard and tinfoil, and then end with a... a something!

Anyway, so last month I went to a performance of "Aida" at Hillcrest High School. I went on a whim, and because I start each year with a list of plays I'd like to see, and "Aida" was the last one I needed to hit. (By the way, it was freaking amazing. Go to Hillcrest plays. You'll be impressed.)

So I was innocently sitting there during intermission trying to see if the cute cameraman was married (what? I'm single. I can do that stuff.) and reading my program, when suddenly, a scene came to me. It went like this:

"Are you normal?" ____ demanded.

"What?" ____ asked.

"Are you normal?" she repeated.

That's it. That's my scene. Despite the fact that the characters didn't even have any names (hence the blanks), in the past few weeks that scene has become an entire book in my head. I've molded it and built it over many December tooth-brushing sessions. (Brushing your teeth = 2nd greatest time to think.)

Every single book I've written (which is technically none, since they're just sitting in Word files on my computer) ... Okay, I feel like I'm overreaching...

Clarification.

Every single Word file I've written that one day has the potential to become a book if I can find a sucker publisher and some editing gumption — has a scene just like that. Some are shorter than others, but each one sparked a story. I'll call it the genesis scene.

There's this one:

“But look at the girls he’s dancing with,” I said, letting my insecurities slip out. “They’re beautiful.”

Or this one: Suddenly, a flash of red appeared, rolling down the slope of the mountain. As I stared, i realized that the shape was actually a girl, and my mouth dropped open.

Or this:

"According to government statute 65921, this tower must be registered with the Ministry of Zoning and Urban Development."

And this:

"Excuse me. Do you know where I can find _____?"

Or this:

The rain fell in a gray curtain, hiding the city behind him and muffling all but the sound of his own breathing.

And this one:

I know who the ____ is. And his apprentice, too.

This too:

“You’re the President of the United States,” she said.

Or even this:

"I’ve got a phone call for you,” the secretary called.

From each of those tiny scenes (and more!) my obedient, happy characters in their obedient, happy storylines grew and developed into full stories. Maybe I'm not a real author, but the characters seem real to me, and I suppose that's what counts.

Someday I'll get around to putting the stories onto paper. But first, maybe I'll make another clay thing...

(Just kidding Shan. I'm editing. I'm totally editing.)

(Actually, I'm still cleaning my room... Sigh.)

My mom taught me everything I know... about insanity

My bed was heaped high with fabric — fabric that had been piled in tiny, orderly stacks earlier in the day — but, like a monster engorging on its favorite num-nums, was now as high as I was tall and threatened to overwhelm my entire room.

It was at that moment I realized it — I'm becoming my mom.

I think under normal circumstances, this type of realization is supposed to scare the bajeebers out of a person. "I'm becoming my MOM?! OH NO!" But for me, I can't help but hope that this truly is the case. My dad likes to say that my mom "moves from one crisis to another," and he's absolutely right. For my mom, her year can be divided into periods of intense activity in preparation for giant service projects. My mom is truly the queen of service.

Let me give you a few examples.

Many of our service projects are rooted in the Miss Utah Organization, which is part of the Miss America program. (And if I've never mentioned it before, the Miss America Organization is ENTIRELY DIFFERENT than the Miss USA program, and it is NOT okay to compare the two. Just so we're clear...heh.) I competed at Miss Utah multiple times, but in my first year, I was incredibly grumpy by the end of the week-long competition. I couldn't figure out why, since I'm normally not that grumpy (stop laughing — I'm not) but eventually I realized that the Miss Utah competition week was incredibly selfish. Everything became about ME, which is counterintuitive to what pageants should be about. When you win a pageant title — if you're a good titleholder — you focus on your platform A LOT. My platform was service, so I spent the 11 months leading up to the pageant doing service projects. But during the Miss Utah week, I mostly just sat around and thought about myself: "It's my turn on stage," "get your dress out of my way," "I'm bored," "I'm tired," "Press my gown," "Do my hair"... You get the idea.

So after winning a second title that would send me back to Miss Utah, my mom suggested I bring along a service project to work on throughout the week. Before long, though, she decided it would be even better if I brought a service project for ALL the girls. In the end, Mom and I brought more than 50 medical dolls for the girls to stuff and sew shut. The dolls would then be given to Primary Children's Medical Center. Mom, my ward members, and I spent the months leading up to the pageant sewing the dolls. Then Mom said the dolls couldn't be naked, so we sewed 50 tiny hospital gowns too. Sewing dolls wasn't enough, though, as Mom also insisted we bring along a quilt for the girls to decorate with fabric markers, and quilts to tie. All told, we commandeered an entire room at the Capitol Theatre and filled it full of service projects.

For three out of my four years competing at Miss Utah, I brought along more service projects for the girls to work on. Hospital dolls, quilts, scrunchies, and more hospital dolls — there was always something. What started as an individual project to keep me from being grumpy grew into a massive project involving 50 girls and 50 Little Miss girls. This theme — evolving service projects — endures. If Mom doesn't have a crisis, she invents one.

When I "aged out" of the Miss Utah program, the Miss Utah board asked Mom to be in charge of the new service committee, and asked if she would develop a Miss Utah Day of Service. It was supposed to be a chance for the 50+ queens to get together and work on service projects. What was perhaps supposed to be a small activity morphed into a giant one, because that's how Mom works. We've made beaded necklaces, colored pages for file folder games, tied quilts, fringed blankets, decorated pillowcases, created coloring folders, made "I Spy" bottles, cut out puppets, made memory game kits, and colored quilt squares. Currently, in my bedroom, I have a number of items waiting to be taken to Primary Children's. When I say "a number," I mean 45 pillowcases, 367 scrunchies, 200 "I Spy" bottles, and about 50 puppet kits. It's madness. Luckily someone else took all the blankets home, or else I wouldn't have room to move.

The Festival of Trees is another big, crazy service project. During my first pageant year, Mom and I decided we should decorate and donate a tree. It doesn't sound like a big deal, does it? Buy a Christmas tree, decorate it, and then have it auctioned off for charity. We were originally going to decorate the tree with donated hats and gloves, etc., which turned into a project where people from all over the world sent us handmade items for our tree. After the first year, we were flabbergasted by how much work it involved, and we swore never to do it again. The next year, of course, we did it again. This time it involved a whole lot of Sculpey, some very tired fingers (mine), and a very, very busy Thanksgiving break where I barely slept. And then we did it again — buying and painting boxes to look like dogs in honor of my aunt. And then we did it again — this time with double the trees. What started out as a fun, simple plan in 2005 turned into this:

And this:

And this: 

When it comes to other things, like Scouting, I think Mom's theory is "Why go small when you can go HUGE?" Under her direction, we've turned our local church buildings into circus tents (complete with animals), the Academy Awards, Hawaiian luaus, and construction zones. This January it will happen again - and it involves angels.

Service is engrained in me because of my mom. My roommates have accepted the fact that I'm always going to be doing something weird when they come into my room. They've seen me sculpt things, sew things, spray things, burn things, and cut things, all for various service projects. My roommate just told me she walked downstairs and saw that somebody was quilting. She figured it was me because "that's the type of stuff you're always doing."

The most recent insanity my mom spearheaded came when she was called to be in charge of the ward Christmas party. Now, sometimes ward Christmas parties (I'm speaking "Mormon" here, but hang with me) are controversial. There's a lot of debate over them — keep them fun, sing carols, have dinner, invite Santa, or walk through a dark room and look at pictures of Christ, or (to quote my brother) "dress up like homeless people and eat on the floor." To translate, he means reenacting the Savior's birth in Bethlehem by dressing up like First World shepherds and eating bread, cheese, and grapes while sitting on blankets and feeling uplifted.

In case you couldn't guess, my family falls in the "have dinner, invite Santa" camp. I understand the desire to make the ward Christmas party hyper Christ-centric, but they quickly devolve into weird, uncomfortable, boring gatherings instead. (Sacrilege!) So my mom decided t0 skip the controversy and focus on service instead. (Of course she did.) On December 10, my ward members did a couple of massive service projects involving providing Christmas gifts for two families, and making 90 stockings and mini Christmas trees for our local nursing home. Most of the stockings were delivered Christmas morning, and we delivered the last 18 Christmas stockings (stuffed full of items my mom asked people to donate — candy, combs, stuffed animals, Chapstick, hats, tissues, scarves, etc.) on Christmas night.

This ward party service project, in case you were curious, was the project that caused my bed to be eaten by a wave of marauding fabric. You see, during my Thanksgiving visit home, my mom mentioned that one of the nurses at the nursing home said the women love to get new headbands. What began as a simple question: "Do you think it's hard to make fabric flowers for headbands?" turned into this:

Exactly 91 headbands with flowers, hanging from the bottom of my loft bed in order to let the fabric stiffener dry... I would blame my mom for talking me into making 91 headbands, but I volunteered to do it. As I was cutting out flowers, though, it hit me. As much as I can make fun of my mom for adopting and inventing crises, I'm turning out just like her.

Oh, sure, I didn't sleep for the entire month of December because I was too busy cutting out flowers and headbands, sewing flowers onto the headbands, and then spraying the headbands with fabric stiffener. Sure, I bought a $350 sewing machine (despite my utter hatred of sewing) mostly so I could sew the headbands together. (It's OK — it was a Cyber Monday buy, so I got it for $139. Sweet.) Sure, my bed is covered in a pile of fabric and there's even more fabric on my floor. Sure, the project cost me money. But the hope that I might be turning into my mom makes it all worth it.

I once had a high school friend ask me why I spent so much time working on a Cub Scout project. "It seems like a waste of time to me," she said. That's not how I see it at all. This world runs on service, whether people realize it or not. PTA, AYSO, Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts, etc. — those people are volunteers, donating their time. As a society, my main fear is that we've come to a place where we think "There's a need. Oh well, somebody will take care of it."

Folks, I've never met anyone named "Somebody."

In my opinion, we need to become the "somebody" who will improve the world  through service and volunteerism. Maybe it's my mom's influence, or maybe it's my prideful conviction that I can do a job better than anyone else. Either way, in terms of volunteer work, my personal theme is this:

"Somebody" won't do it — I will do it. 

(If nothing else, at least I'm putting my pride to good use.) As stupid as I feel when my roommates come into my room to find it half covered in boxes of things for Primary Children's, and half covered in fabric piles and flower headbands, I wouldn't want to change the insanity I've been taught. If I'm not spending my time helping others, that means I'm spending my time on myself, and that's not where I want my life's focus to be.

To quote Lord of the Rings, "Such is oft the course of deeds that move the wheel of the world: Small hands do them because they must, while the eyes of the great are elsewhere."

To throw out another quote that's even more poignant and true, "A very large ship is benefited very much by a very small helm in the time of a storm, by being kept workways with the wind and the waves. Therefore ... let us cheerfully do all things that lie in our power, and then may we stand still, with the utmost assurance, to see the salvation of God, and for his arm to be revealed."

As long as there is need in this world, and I have the means and ability to help address the needs of even one person, I'll embrace all the insanity it takes.

Cheers to moving from one crisis to another.

And thanks Mom. 

No time to blog

Considering nobody reads this blog and I don't do anything to promote it, I'm somewhat amused by the fact that I still feel guilty when I neglect it. 

Blog conundrum!

I have long posts composed in my head - some of them political, some of them serious, and some of them silly or ridiculous. Unfortunately, those'll have to wait. Right now I'm busy doing stuff like this:

1. Grad school applications.

I thought studying math for the GRE was the worst thing in the world, but then I hit the actual grad school applications. I'm currently trying to apply to three different universities, all in different areas of study, and I'm trying to get each of the schools to send transcripts from one school to the next. It's a joke. Colleges should give out honorary degrees for hoop-jumping. For example, I called BYU the other day to ask a question about the school's postbaccalaureate program. During the course of the conversation, the girl transferred me to the admissions office for some reasons, and my conversation with the poor office boy went like this:

Me: "So that girl said I need to send my transcript to you, but I don't think that's right."

Boy: "No, that's right. You just need to order a transcript and have it sent here."

Me: "I have to order my BYU transcript from BYU, and have BYU send it to BYU? Are you serious?"

Boy: " .... You know what? I'm going to ask somebody about that."

There's a reason I avoided talking to counselors and people in offices during college - they always give you bad advice and they NEVER know what they're talking about. 

2. Eurotrash of nerdom.

Make jewelry? Okay. Why? Dunno... It keeps me out of trouble, I guess.  I've spent a fortune on jewelry stuff, though, and currently have very little to show for it. Whoops.

3. Clayin' around.

The director of the Miss Utah Outstanding Teen pageant asked me to make a clay figurine of last year's titleholder. Figuring out how to make the crown was a nightmare that involved accidentally sticking a tube of super glue to my work phone and getting super glue on my teeth, but I managed to succeed despite my own idiocy. She asked me to make another one before Christmas, and I'm also supposed to make a princess for my cousin, so hopefully there's some creativity left in these fingers of mine.

4. Editing.

See that? That's 196 pages of 1.5-spaced type that needs to be edited. I spent the last month cutting 35,000 words out of my book, and now I need to re-edit the whole manuscript to eliminate the errors that I undoubtedly introduced. I've hauled this massive pile of paper everywhere, but I'm only on chapter three. I have a tendency to overestimate my ability to focus on editing, so I carry it around, but do very little. Shame. I'm also supposed to be writing a query letter and an appendix. Boogers.

If I would stop inventing busyness, I wouldn't be busy... But I'd be awfully bored.

Busy conundrum!

It never hurts to ask

You know those books that shaped your childhood? The books that you carried everywhere, that you reread a million times, and that you couldn't bear to be parted from?

Mine was called, "The Ordinary Princess," and it's the best book in the world.

I had a love affair with this book when I was little. I must've checked it out from the local library at least a thousand times. I found it by happenstance – let's face it, you've probably never heard of it. Most people haven't. I must've on a princess kick at the time (which means I went to the library and searched for "princess") because otherwise I would never have discovered this gem.

The story is simple: there's a princess named Amethyst Alexandria Augusta Araminta Adelaide Aurelia Anne. At her christening, Amethyst is cursed by a fairy. Her curse is to be ordinary.

Psychologically, I assume the book struck a chord with me when I was younger because I felt ordinary. Amy (as her family called her – "and what could be more ordinary than that?") wasn't pretty. She had mousy brown hair and freckles. She was, however, smart, witty, and charming. Throughout the story, Amy never allowed her six older, beautiful, perfect sisters to intimidate her. Instead, she created the life she wanted to have, found her prince, and they lived happily ever after. Naturally any young, awkward, insecure girl would find the story perfect, and I did. What could be better than a strong and self-sufficient princess who finds her true love?

The answer is NOTHING.

Even after I got older, I still checked out the book so often that one of the librarians commented every time I put it on the counter. I didn't care. It's a piece of my childhood that will never get old.

Of course, once I grew up, I decided I wanted a copy of the book for myself. Thanks to a lovely little thing called eBay, I snagged a cheap one without any trouble. The book was recently reprinted, so you can get it on Amazon, etc., but the cover is hideously ugly. I refused to support the desecration of my book by buying that lousy thing.

It was only after the eBay book showed up at my house that I discovered how truly special the version I grew up with was. One of the neat things about the book is that the illustrations were all done by the author, M.M. Kaye. They're charming and dainty; beautiful in their simplicity.

My little eBay paperback included some of the drawings, but a quick perusal left me full of disappointment. For some reason, while the black and white drawings were still there, the three full-page color drawings in my childhood library copy had been cut out. I'm sure nobody else in the world noticed or even knew that drawings were missing, but I knew. It was like a knife to the heart.

Drawings like these were absent:

DO YOU SEE WHAT A LOSS THIS IS?!

I missed those color drawings keenly. I couldn't read my paperback without silently mourning. Because of that, I wasn't satisfied with my little paperback (which also had an ugly cover, by the way.) Instead, I coveted the hardcover library copy. I wanted it badly. I devised all sorts of devious plans - buying the ugly Amazon copy and switching the stickers and library pocket while nobody was looking, seeing if the librarians would do a straight trade for an Amazon upgrade, checking it out and pretending to lose it... I never acted on the plans because I would've felt like a criminal, but I sure thought about them.

Every time I visited my hometown and saw the library, that hunger for "The Ordinary Princess" would reawaken. Finally, last week, acting on much encouraging by my mom and an overwhelming yearning for my book, I decided to go to the library. I planned to ask them to let me know if they ever decided to get rid of the old book from 1984.

It wouldn't hurt to ask, would it?

Truth be told, I nearly lost my nerve when I got to the library, because the librarian who knew my passion for the book wasn't there, nor was the head librarian, who I know pretty well. It's a small town - you know people. The only person there was a librarian named Stephen. (Or Steven.) I found my book (didn't even have to look it up; I knew right where it would be) and alternated between chickening out, putting the book back, and starting toward the checkout counter a couple of times.

But the thing with asking is this: the worst somebody can tell you is "no."

So I took that beautiful, blue, hardback book with the faded cover of a princess who looks like her head is on backward (see the cover at the top of the post) and I put it down on the counter.

"I have a strange request," I said. "I must've read this book five million times while I was growing up, and I was wondering if there was some way you could contact me if the library ever decides to get rid of it."

"Let me see," Stephen/Steven said. 

He picked up my book and scanned it, then scrolled through a couple of things, humming to himself. Then, with a smile, he pulled the library pocket off, put the book on the counter, and slid it over to me. I suspect my face looked like this:

"Are you serious?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said. "Nobody has checked it out for three years; it's yours."

I offered to pay, but he refused. I then thanked him so profusely that he probably thought I was crazy. Then I cuddled the book with a sense of reverent awe all the way to the car. I was like a junkie. If Stephen/Steven would've seen me driving clear back to Salt Lake with the book on my lap, he probably would've doubted the wisdom of giving it to me in the first place, but it's too late now...

THE BOOK IS MINE!

It's sitting beside me as I type this, and I can't stop myself from glancing over and smiling. I love this book. I love it so much. Sure, it's all of 112 pages long. Sure, it's meant for third graders. Sure, it's cheesy. But you know what?

I don't care. 

I've loyally waited for this book for a good 15 years, and now it's mine. To quote The Court Jester: "Life couldn't possibly, not even probably, life couldn't possibly better be!"

Lavender's blue

Rosemary's green

When I am King

You shall be Queen

Birthday: You’re doing it wrong

I turned 25 this month. Ever since my birthday, I’ve been dealing with the same awkward question:

“How was your birthday?!” 

Well… to put it simply… I did it wrong. 

I have a long-running streak of bad luck when it comes to celebrations or holidays. For instance, I spent last Christmas at work. If my family hadn’t been willing to delay opening gifts, the highlight of the day would have been seeing a cute guy at the gas station. 

New Year’s Day is my archnemesis – I’ve never had a good one. The movies always make it look so fun, with romance, mystery, excitement, and fireworks. Mine mostly consist of my family sitting around looking tired or being unable to watch TV because someone is sleeping in the TV room. 

Even the once, when New Year’s involved a boy, I still somehow ended up not seeing him and instead acting as chauffer for a friend and someone I didn’t know. Lame. 

My most memorable New Year’s involved a nice bout of pink eye. I’m not kidding here – I woke up early for drill team practice and glanced in the mirror to find this: 

You can understand why my celebration standards are low. 

Now, to be fair, birthdays become lamer the older you get. It’s a rule of aging. Because most of my friends are married and busy, I didn’t expect my birthday to be much. My family fed me cake and sang to me earlier in the week, so that was my main celebration. 

(Although even that got messed up because I had to run back to work so quickly that I left the cake behind, which means my brothers ate my birthday cake… not that I’m bitter…) 

At best, I thought my birthday would involve sitting at home and doing nothing. That wouldn’t have been bad. In fact, that would've been FAR better than what I ended up doing. The birthday I actually experienced left me puzzling over how to say that my birthday was great without lying… 

Because it wasn’t great... It wasn't even good.

Although my birthday fell on a Friday, the fun began the Tuesday before, when a girl backed her truck into my car. My car held up surprisingly well, considering how ghetto it is. The cover over my headlight is smashed, and there’s a big dent in the poo-brown paint. No biggie.  

BUT  

For the next few days, my car felt weird, and I began to worry that the fender bender had damaged the axle or the wheel well. Finally, I decided to take it to the shop. Since Friday (my birthday) was my day off, I knew it would have to be then. Taking a car to the shop on your birthday isn’t a big deal, but it did mean that I found myself downtown at 9 a.m. without anything to do (nothing is open at 9 a.m.) and no car with which to do it. 

Therefore, over the next 6 hours, I did the following things: 

Sat at work

Moaned about my car 

Wrote a newspaper article

Moaned about my car 

Read all the news

Moaned about my car

Caught up on blogs (update yours, Miss Olsen!)

Moaned about my car 

In other words, it was like any other day at work, except with the added bonus of car moaning. 

Finally Big O called. They informed me that my car was fine and that it would be done within the next 45 minutes. They also informed me that I had gotten a parking ticket. 

When I got to Big O, I paid them $74 for a tire alignment – and they paid me $15 for my parking ticket – and then I waited for them to roll my car out of the garage. However, soon the boss came back in and said this: 

“So… There’s a problem… You know how I said there wasn’t anything wrong with it? Um… There’s something wrong with it.” 

Yeah. That’s why I brought it in. 

It turns out that one of the inner bolts on the car had snapped in half. The other one was rusted almost all the way through. The bolts – rather critically – hold the front of the car on. 

According to Ford (should you want the more technical description) “the rear lower subframe mount plate nut can experience stress corrosion cracking if subjected to long term exposure to road salts. This can result in fracture and loss of the structural integrity of the subframe mount attachment. Detachment of the body mounts at the rear corners of the subframe, which supports the engine and transmission, allows the rear corners of the subframe to drop. If both rear corners drop, steering would become suddenly very difficult, affecting vehicle control and increasing the risk of a crash.” 

Translation: If the front of your car falls off, you will crash. 

The nice Big O man refunded my $74 and then estimated the repair would cost $450. He also said he had only seen that problem once, and they took that car straight to the dump. Wonderful. 

I drove home at roughly the speed of a 99-year-old grandma (how would you drive, if the front of your car was being held on by ½ of a rusty bolt?) and sat around waiting for my mom to give me instructions on what to do next. Would I drive the 2 ½ hours home in the death-on-wheels car? Would the parents tell me to get it fixed? Would I have to (gasp!) take public transportation?! 

(In all seriousness, it's a realistic concern for a girl who works night shifts.) 

To sum up my birthday: 

1. Spent 6 hours sitting at work despite it being my day off

2. Got my first-ever parking ticket (first-ever ticket of any sort, thank you.) 

3. Discovered I’d been driving like a maniac while ½ of a bolt away from death.

4. Found myself weighing the costs: $450 vs. a fiery demise. 

5. Sat in my room and wished I could drive somewhere and buy stuff to make myself feel better – but since I didn’t want to spend my birthday with the Grim Reaper, I stayed put.

So, to all of you people who wondered how my birthday went… 

Um… It was good.

P.S. The story doesn’t end badly, though. Due to a valiant phone effort by my mom and a clever dad who looked up Ford recalls, Ford paid for the repair. We had to convince them it snows in Utah (“Greatest Snow on Earth” license plates? The 2002 Winter Olympics? The opening scene of “National Treasure”?! DOES NONE OF THIS MEAN ANYTHING?!) And my mom got me a gift certificate to Shabby Apple, which finally showed up on October 20 and was spent on these:

Also, the Big O guys were lovely. If you’re near 178 East South Temple and need tires, I’d recommend them. Two fellows from work kindly gave me rides when the car was in the shop, and the Larry H. Miller Ford guys gave me a drink token and two rides in a Ford Flex. Yee-haw.

I'm not upset about my birthday – it's more funny than anything. Besides, there's always next year.