How cynicism and elevators ruined my Jedi-ish aspirations

Admit it — when you walk through automatic doors, you feel like a Jedi too...

There's just something thrilling about doors that swing open on their own, moved (no doubt) by the power of the Force. Facebook's Pieces of Flair agree:

Even though I enjoy feeling like  Jedi, I still can't contain my natural cynicism when it comes to anything mechanical. Too many of my cars have quite running in the middle of intersections for me to trust things with motors and gears. That's why — as someone once asked me — when I walk up to an automatic door, I always kick my foot out to alert it of my presence. I call it the "door dance." 

(I don't really call it that. I just made that up.)

BUT, if I did have a name for my automatic door process — which means that I walk up to a door, poke my foot out, and wave it around — it would be called a "door dance."

Seriously, there's nothing worse than being ignored by automatic doors. It tends to happen to me a lot, either because I'm easy to ignore, or because technology hates me. For example, a couple of weeks ago I went to a Michael's for some craft supplies. Like every other shopper, I walked up to the large automatic door and waited for it to open.

Wait...wait...wait...

The door didn't open. It didn't even acknowledge my presence. It was probably because I hadn't done the door dance.

My first thought was that I had somehow missed a holiday, and that Michael's was closed. However, upon peering through the window (and no doubt looking like an idiot while I did so) I could see people shopping inside. That left me to draw the cold, depressing conclusion that the automatic door was ignoring me. (Or that I wasn't a Jedi). I had to walk away from the door and then walk back up to it again, this time pretending to be "big," so the door would notice me. Luckily, thinking "big" worked. 

More than once, though, pretending to be a Jedi or thinking 'big" has failed, which usually leads to awkward or embarrassing situations. 

Today, for instance, I went to work just like I do most days. The elevators in my office building are super secure — moving through the building is like trying to break into Fort Knox. You need a card key to access most floors from the elevator, and you even need a card key to get out of a stairwell. About the only thing you don't need a key card for is the bathroom.

Anyway, today, like normal, I swiped my card key in the elevator and pushed the button for my floor. The button lit up, just like it was supposed to, and the elevator started to move upward. To my surprise, though, the elevator stopped on the first floor. It didn't just stop, though — it went up a little, and then down a little, and then it settled in place with a tired shudder.

"That's weird," I thought.

I was working the night shift, so there were few people around to stop the elevator on the five floors between my desk and the parking garage. But the possibility of someone needing an elevator ride wasn't unheard of, even for a night shift, so I thought nothing of it.

Until the doors refused to open.

Once I was positive the doors weren't going to open for anyone, I assumed the elevator hadn't realized I was in it. So I swiped my key card again and pushed the "5" button. It lit up, just like it was supposed to, and then the elevator began to move upward.

"Problem solved," I thought. "It was just a fluke."

Then the elevator screeched to a stop again, this time on the fourth floor. The doors opened with a cheerful "ping," and some random guy climbed on. Despite the fact that the "5" button was still lit up, the electronic display in the elevator changed from a green "up" arrow to a red "down" arrow. It was as though the elevator was taunting me — Hahaha! I don't have to listen to you! How long will you ride up and down before you realize that I will NEVER take you to the fifth floor?

Now, I've been patient with elevators in the past, but I wasn't taking any guff from this one. Instead, I got out of the elevator and took the stairs the rest of the way up,

After cars, elevators are my biggest nemesis when it comes to mechanical things. I habitually get stuck in them, and they habitually ignore me. Although the elevator (like the Jedi door at Michael's) had just been ignoring me today, I once got really, truly stuck in an elevator in the Capitol Building in Washington, D.C.

What? If you're going to get stuck in an elevator, you might as well do it right...

In 2009 I was working as an intern for a newspaper in D.C. The Capitol Hill complex is more than a mite confusing — it consists of six office buildings for the House and the Senate, plus the Capitol Building in the center. A labyrinth of underground tunnels and subways connects the entire thing together, so our elected officials can walk from meeting to meeting without bumping shoulders (or even seeing) the proletarian unwashed masses of their constituents.

As a new intern, I really needed a map to get from one point to another. Since I'm waaaay too prideful to use maps or ask for directions, though, I just made a point of taking the same path to and from each building. Any deviations to my routine, and I would be lost in the bowels of the Capitol Building. 

Now, my memory of the incident may be a little skewed (trauma can do that) but if I remember correctly, the President was really to blame for what happened next. I'm pretty sure that he decided to visit the House or Senate that day, which meant his Secret Service dudes blocked my path and directed me to find another way to get home. 

I vaguely remember sighing really, really dramatically as I rolled my eyes at them. This probably convinced them that I was a jerk reporter, but really, I was just worried about finding my way outside. The Capitol Building has dozens of doors, but only one or two that you can actually use. Security guards, metal detectors, blocked-off stairs, etc. make the place more of a maze than it already is.

Anyway, since I had no other choice, I decided to go to the lower level of the Capitol Building. The Capitol has five levels, and I habitually traversed the lowest level and sometimes the first and second. This time, though, I got off an elevator on some level I had never seen before. The walls were all pink and the hallway was tiny, but I figured if I walked straight I would eventually find a way out. 

So I walked...and walked...and walked...

(Like a pioneer!)

Eventually I decided I had walked far enough and I found an elevator. It was the most beautiful elevator I had ever seen — dark wood paneling, bright lights, marble floors — and I climbed on board. It was only after the doors closed that I realized I had just climbed onto the Titanic of elevators: my trip was doomed from the start.

Since I didn't want to go down, I pushed the button for the first floor. The elevator started moving up — right past the first floor. It pulled to a stop on the second floor. 

"That's okay," I thought. "I can just walk down the stairs."

But — just like the elevator at work today — the doors didn't open. Not sure of what to do, I pushed the button for the first floor again. It didn't even light up. Then I tried the button for the basement. Still nothing. I read the instructions on what to do if the elevator got stuck — push and hold the "open doors" button. That didn't work either. 

It took a while, but I eventually figured out I had gotten into the special elevator reserved only for Senators and normally run by bellhops with special card keys. Since I wasn't a Senator or a bellhop, and I didn't possess a special card key, I figured I would be stuck there until the next morning, which was both troubling and embarassing. 

Luckily, as a last-ditch effort to escape, I pushed the button for the third floor, and the elevator obeyed. This time (to my relief) the doors opened. I jumped out immediately, surprising a security guard. Since I couldn't just let him wonder about my miraculous appearance, I explained the whole story to him. He laughed at me, and then pointed me in the right direction.

That beautiful Senate elevator cemented my distrust of mechanical things. And, of course, I saw this today and that totally didn't help:

It's an escalator malfunction in D.C. where the brakes failed and threw everyone in a pile. If most of the subway escalators hadn't been broken while I lived in D.C., I'm sure this would have happened on my way to work or something. Escalators are scary. Seriously, who hasn't hasn't dreamed of an escalator suddenly malfunctioning and sucking you in by your feet? 

I've accepted the fact that most mechanical things will either malfunction or ignore me. However, I have yet to understand why — when it happens — it still makes me feel so insignificant...

The seven most dangerous words

According to the movie "Spy Kids," the most dangerous words a person can utter are "I do."

(That's right — "Spy Kids." I enjoy mature entertainment.)

Anyway, the point is, saying "I do" can result in a lot of twists and turns in your life that you might not expect. I'm no expert on this, seeing as how I'm not married and all, but I would respectfully disagree with this pinnacle of American cinema. See, I believe the most dangerous words are these:

"I was going to be on time."

These words are dangerous because they always — ALWAYS — lead to an inevitable "But..." which naturally leads into a long, depressing story.

So, in keeping with that kernel of truth...

Once upon a time on a Sunday in December, I was getting ready for church. I was very excited because... I was going to be on time!

As I left my bedroom I had that tickling feeling in the back of my mind, warning me that I was forgetting something important. But since I had my scriptures and my iPod, I figured I had everything I needed. What else could there be? 

So, I happily trooped through the front door and outside to my car. As soon as I went to unlock the car, though, it hit me. That unimportant thing that I had forgotten? Yep, my keys. Now, I know you're thinking, "Just go back inside and get them; no biggie," but it was a biggie. See, the door on my house locked as soon as I closed it, so I knew I was in trouble.

Still optimistic, I ran back to my front door, hoping that it hadn't latched. 

It had. 

Next, I ran around to the back of the house, hoping that a random roommate had left it unlocked. 

They hadn't.

So there I was, locked out of my house with my scriptures and an iPod, in December, and without a coat. Genius. 

Feeling like an idiot, I rang the doorbell. Two of my roommates were home, so I figured I would just ring the doorbell until one of them rolled out of bed and came to open the door. But no matter how many times I rang the doorbell, nobody inside of the house stirred. One of my roommates was hopped up on cold medicine, and the other was apparently the world's deepest sleeper. Since I had locked my cell phone inside, I couldn't even call them. My happy "I'm-going-to-be-on-time" Sunday had suddenly taken a turn for the worse.

Now, I'm never one to be defeated by locked doors. I've unlocked doors with bobby pins, and barrettes, and even spoons. My last roommate habitually locked me out of the bathroom. (Which is a traumatizing experience, by the way.) I also have yet to meet a house that I can't break into. Climbing onto the roof in a dress and breaking into my brother's room so I could get my toe shoes for Miss Utah? No biggie. Hopping through my apartment window without  even bumping the goldfish bowl right inside of it? Easy. With years of experience under my belt, I figured I would be fine.

I figured wrong. 

Since knocking and ringing the doorbell seemed to be getting me nowhere, I ran around the house, peering through the windows and trying to find one that was unlocked. Within just a few minutes I surmised that we five girls kept our house safely secured against people interested in breaking and entering. (In this case, that meant people like me.) But then, suddenly, I spotted my salvation — an open window! I ran over to it and pushed, only to find that our 1970s crank-me-open-like-an-old-car-window windows were impossible to open farther than a couple of inches. No matter how hard I pushed, the window wouldn't budge. That three-inch gap taunted me, laughing at my desperation.

"No three-inch gap will defeat me!" I vowed. 

Having made the promise, the next step was to make it a reality. So, I decided to venture to the back of the house. It was a place I had never encountered before. I had only lived there for a month, and who seriously walks around the back of their house for no reason? Being locked out and cold proved to be the motivation I needed, so I began to explore.

The first thing I found was a door. My mind said, "Ah-ha! A door!" And the door responded with, "Haha. Locked." 

The next thing I found was a cement staircase leading down. My mind said, "What the?!" and the stairs said, "You should walk down me...granted, it's creepy and dark and looks like a serial killer could be lurking at the bottom, but...come on down..."

Naturally, I went down.

When I came to the bottom of the stairs, I found two doors. The one on the right was thick and metal, and the one on the left was rickety and falling apart, with a gaping black window leading into a room I had never seen before. Feeling stupid, I knocked on the door to the right. There was no answer. Turning to the door on the left, I saw the orange glow of a space heater and my mind instantly began inventing stories like this:

"Scary basement room + space heater = homeless person living in my basement! There's a homeless person living in my basement!"

Desperation can cause a person to do silly things, so even though I was convinced I would find a hobo cuddled up in this random room under my house, I opened the door and went in. 

To my utter relief, there were no drifters, transients, or homeless people. There was just a random space heater (turned on) in a creepy, random little room.  None of it made sense, but I had been locked outside for a while, so it didn't matter. Besides, that room held my salvation. I used the bizarre space heater to warm up (December and no coat = not smart) and then I found it — a treasure...the best thing I had ever seen: a little, tiny piece of metal. 

I don't really know what it was — a pruning blade? A saw? It was one of those things they give away for free in hardware stores, with jagged teeth on one side, and with someone's logo printed on the main body. Descriptive, I know, but it's the best I can do...

Even thought it's now a couple of months later, I still don't know the official name of that tool, but I do know that it saved the day. I used the saw to unscrew a screen on a door, then I pried the window open, stuck my hand in, and unlocked the door. I left the house at 8:50 a.m. (remember — I was going to be on time!) and walked back into my room at 10:44, having never actually left the premises. Needless to say, I was NOT on time.

The moral of this story is to be cautious when using the words: "I was going to be on time." I distinctly remember thinking those seven words as I left my bedroom, and found myself regretting that hubris only a few seconds later. From now on, I'm sticking with, "I'm going to be late." It just seems like the safer option...

 During the whole process of trying to pick locks with bobby pins and creeping around my own house, I was incredibly self-conscious about the fact that I had locked myself out. I wanted my roommates to wake up and open the door, but at the same time, I really, really didn't want them to know that I was an idiot. That's partially why I didn't knock on any windows or ring the doorbell more than a few times. Looking back, I probably made a bad choice. Hindsight is a great thing...

And so are keys.

(And just in case you're curious - the random space heater was apparently placed there by my landlord to keep the pipes from freezing. Ghetto.)

(And just in case you're even more curious - this whole "Start a blog to beat writer's block" thing seems to be working. In this long break between posts, I've finished writing and editing a book. Success.)

Hippies, makeup, and cow revenge

(While this is apparently a scene from the movie "Hippie Hippie Shake," I choose to interpret it more literally as, "Run from the hippies! Ahhhh!")

Not long after I moved to Salt Lake, I went to the grocery store on a normal, average grocery run.

(Average for me means that I ran out of York Peppermint Patties, but anyway...) 

Since I was out of foundation (as in, makeup) and shampoo, I found myself standing in front of a wall of Pantene and L'Oreal, trying to make decisions. While I compared prices and ounces, a hippie turned the corner and began meandering toward me. He was scrawny, and scruffy, and — more bizarrely — hugging a bottle of Sprite. 

"Do you know where to find ingredients on makeup?" he asked. 

I thought it was an innocent question — maybe he was buying makeup for his wife who was allergic to something. So I answered accordingly.

"No, I don't. Sorry."

It was then that I discovered: When you engage hippies in conversation, you find out that they're not so innocent.

Remember that. Log it away. Learn from my mistakes.

"Did you know that most makeup brands have animal fat in them?" he demanded, grinning like a monkey. I could tell he was excited to find someone to talk to. 

"No, I didn't know that," I said, feeling the situation spiraling into weirdness.

"Yeah," he said, bouncing on his toes in glee. "Animal fat. They put animal fat in there. So when you're putting on makeup you're actually putting animal fat all over your face."

"That's interesting," I said, wondering what to do. 

Even though I clearly wasn't worried about smearing animal fat on my skin, the poor man kept talking. Since I've never been good at telling people to get lost, I finally decided just to ignore him. In choosing between browsing shampoos and getting a lecture from a Sprite-hugging hippie, it was no contest.

Him: "If you went to a Whole Foods store, you could probably find makeup that doesn't have animal fat in it."

Me: "Mmm hmmm. That's fascinating."

Him: "If you watch (some documentary) you'll never want to eat meat again."

Me: "Yep, I'm sure." 

He and I went on like this for some time before he admitted that I wasn't subscribing to his brand of nuttism.

And so, my poor hippie left, probably crying internally that he had failed to convince me of the error of my ways. It's better that he didn't know what I was REALLY thinking while he was talking:

Him: "If you watch (some documentary) you'll never want to eat meat again."

Me: "Not eat meat?! Please. Meat is delicious!"

Him: "The way they treat the animals at butcher shops, it's just disgusting!"

Me: "Luckily my grandparents butcher their own cows locally. That means my family has a whole fridge full of yummy meat!"

Him: "They put animal fat in makeup. So when you're putting on makeup you're actually putting animal fat all over your face."

Me: "If the animals are dead, they're not using it!"

(Side note: Aren't hippies supposed to be all about using what is found in nature? Animal fat on my face? At least it's natural!)

The lessons in all of this are simple:

1. Never engage a hippie in conversation. Their passion is admirable — as long as it's directed at someone else...

2. Never try to convince a girl that she shouldn't eat cows when she grew up herding them. Herding cows taught me that cows are not cute and docile — they are ugly, smelly, and stupid. If you've ever herded cows, you'll understand the vindictive pleasure I get out of eating hamburger. There's something about chasing cows through fields, stepping in cow pies, getting eaten alive by mosquitoes, and trying to stop cows from running through fences or falling into rivers that changes your mental state. It's like I take revenge on all those stupid cows every time I go to McDonald's.

And revenge is sweet.

And tasty.

Things like the hippie experience happen to me all the time. Going to the grocery store is always a gamble because I never know who will accost me next. The only conclusion to this is that I must look like a sucker. 

Well...

I'll have to work on that.

The scariest night of my life: Kansas, 2004

Now, a lot of people know that my biggest fear in life isn't death or public speaking. Nope, my biggest fear is running out of gas. Why? Because I'm pretty darn small. It's not like I could singlehandedly push my car out of the middle of the road or anything... If I want an adrenaline high, I just have to let my gas light come on.

But the scariest night of my life didn't involve my car or gasoline. Nope, instead it involved these:

I know, Josh Groban and The Princess Bride don't seem like they're all that scary. But when put in the context of this:

it equals this:

In the summer of 2004 I had just finished my junior year of high school. At that time, my stake decided it would be a good idea to take 300 of our youth to Nauvoo. This was a good idea for many reasons (and a horrible idea for a bunch of other reasons).

When the appointed time came, all of us piled into seven buses and began the long trek to Illinois. I was the Laurel's president at this time, and I was also a youth leader for the voyage, so I was feeling pretty good about myself. Nothing could dampen my greatness ... except for Kansas.

The trip to Nauvoo was wonderful. We saw all the sites, got "Vocal Point" to give us a special performance, took picture of the temple at sunrise, and generally had a jolly time. After a couple of days in Nauvoo we headed to Carthage (where events transpired that I will never forget - i.e. where I formed my intense hatred for disposable cameras). Then, with a quick stop at Liberty Jail and Adam-ondi-Ahman, we began our long drive home.

As we traveled across Kansas, somehow our seven buses dropped behind schedule. This required us to drive for several hours in the dark. To my horror, as we headed toward our hotel, the sky darkened and a Midwestern storm began. It was the first step in what would become the worst night of my life.

Just for a comparison, this is what a Utah storm looks like:

And this is what a Midwestern storm looks like:

I might be exaggerating a little, but I doubt it.

Aside from running out of gas, my biggest fear in life has always been tornadoes. When visiting my grandparents in tornado-friendly Indiana, I got nervous if it was cloudy. A real storm would leave me curled up on a couch, frantically repenting of every sin I had committed — just in case. I spent entire visits praying for sunny skies; my brothers spent visits praying for tornadoes.

(Since we had never seen a tornado, it was clear who prayed harder.)

Because my grandparents lived in Tornado Alley, I became an expert on Midwestern storms. I knew exactly what to do if a tornado appeared. Whenever we stopped somewhere, I looked for storm cellars and basements. I studied techniques in hiding under overpasses. I knew all about diving into bathtubs and covering yourself in pillows. I was schooled in how utilize a ditch to avoid being sucked up. 

I knew everything — EVERYTHING — there was to know. I was prepared, you see, for within Midwestern storms lurked the dreaded tornado.

Most of the 300 people on our seven buses had never encountered a Midwestern storm, so they were pretty excited by the fact that our bus could have been struck by lightning at any time, leaving us roasted in our seats. To calm us down, one of the leaders put on The Princess Bride. Under normal circumstances this would have been a good idea. Somehow that movie has a hypnotic power that can overcome both boys and girls. In choosing between a movie and the storm, however, well... it was no contest.

As we sped across Kansas, every single person on our bus plastered themselves against the windows, oohing and ahhing the pyrotechnic display of nature's fury. Then the exclamation came:

"TORNADO!"

Whoever screamed the word probably regretted it seconds later, because all 50+ people threw themselves against the window facing the purported tornado. I imagine the original screamer was squished in the excitement. It would have served them right.

After the first cry, the bus erupted in tornado-induced euphoria. People started hyperventilating.

"I see it! There it is!"

"There's another one! There are two!"

"I see five! Five tornadoes!" 

"Five?! No way, I see fifteen! They're surrounding us!"

Panicking, I threw on my headphones and turned up my CD (ah, the ages of CDs) to its highest volume, trying to drown out the hubub. If we were going to die in an Armageddon of tornadoes, I was going to go out listening to Josh Groban. I could feel my leaders staring at me as I huddled under my blanket. They were undoubtedly worried about my mental state, having never seen their (fairly) capable youth leader reduced to a quivering mass of Jell-o.

See, I wasn't worried about dying in the plethora of tornadoes. No, instead, I was caught up in my responsibility. If, in fact, our buses were really surrounded by tornadoes, I had a duty to protect all 300 people on our trip. 

Why me? 

Well, because I was the tornado expert.

Many of the 300 people on our trip had never been out of Utah. If our buses stopped, without my knowledge, they would probably all run into the middle of the road and take pictures until the tornado sucked them up. I was imagining the scene in my mind:

Me: "Hide in the ditch!"

Them: "Look! A tornado! My mom will never believe this!" 

(Camera: Snap, snap, snap)

Me: "You're going to die!"

Them: "Eh? Did you know there's a tornado over there?"

Me: "It's coming this direction!"

Them: "Does that tornado look like it's coming closer? That'd be awesome — my camera's zoom isn't that great!"

I spent the next hour blasting Josh Groban, trying to figure out how to keep 300 people alive. If we stopped in the right place, I could fit maybe 50 under one side of the overpass, and depending on how fast they ran, a ditch would hold at least 150. If there were culverts nearby, that would help too... 

It was a crushing burden for my scrawny shoulders to accept, but I did it anyway, praying all the while. 

In the midst of all this, our caravan paused at a rest stop. Everyone else ran around taking pictures of the sky, while I dashed from bus to bus trying to find my mom. She had accompanied us on the trip but was riding on a different ward's bus. If anyone had the know-how to alleviate my tornado panic, it was my mom. She had actually been sucked up by a tornado before (okay, slight exaggeration. One had just missed her school years before, but whatevs) so she would be able to help me save everyone else.

To my horror, her bus was nowhere to be found.

So, it was back on to my bus, Josh Groban, The Princess Bride, and more panicking. 

As soon as we got to the hotel that night, my mom came running up to find me. It turned out that her bus had stopped at a different rest stop. Knowing that I would be a psychological mess, she hurried to reassure me, informing me that the storm outside — the storm which had produced more tornadoes than had ever been seen on the earth (according to my fellow youth) — was not even the type of storm that could create a tornado.

"It's not tornado weather," she informed me. "It's just a storm."

So, in the end, all of this:

was for nothing.

But The Princess Bride and Josh Groban were tarnished forever.

C'est la vie

Trouble with a capital "T"

I've got a mad passion for the theater. I don't mean movie theaters - I mean the kind where you dress up and sit in an audience to enjoy a live production put on by people with the type of talents you can only dream of. That's real theater.

Last night I saw "White Christmas" at Pioneer Theater. The movie is, of course, a classic. Rosemary Clooney, Vera-Ellen, Bing Crosby, and Danny Kaye? How can you go wrong?! 

The play was great too, but unfortunately, I knew within seconds of the opening number that I had chosen the wrong seat. One row back and three seats to my right sat trouble. Trouble with a capital "T." Yes...that's right...

The dreaded Talker.

The fastest way to annoy me - even if we've just met - is to talk while I'm watching a movie, TV, or a theater performance. Don't do it. We'll both be better off. In this situation, I wasn't close enough to actually hear what the talker was saying throughout the performance, but I could still hear the prolonged muttering.

To experience this for yourself, imagine mixing the iconic sounds of Crosby's "White Christmas" with the voice of Charlie Brown's teacher.

In fact, you don't have to imagine. Just push "play" at the same time:

See? Horrifying.

That's what you subject other people to when you talk in the theater.

*****

I also recently saw "Tangled" with two of my brothers. My brother's friend came along and he's a talker, which means the experience began much like my "White Christmas" trauma. Unfortunately, this time I was close enough to hear what he was saying.

"Wow, she's got a lot of hair..."

That could be because "Tangled" is the story of "Rapunzel," which is the story of a girl who ... has a lot of hair...

"Look, they keep drawing his nose weird."

Why, yes, they do. It's a visual example of something called a "running gag."

"Haha! The horse keeps acting like it's a dog. That's why it's funny."

It was a good thing the talking friend was there. Otherwise we might not have understood why we were laughing...

Luckily, within a few minutes the friend got so interested in the movie that he stopped narrating. Whew.

*****

The only way for me to effectively deal with the irritation of talkers is to mentally mock them - to laugh at their inclination to point out the obvious, and to scorn their not-so-witty remarks.

Odds are, if you've said something ridiculous enough to make me laugh at you, I'll remember it.

Man in the D.C. museum who told his wife that the British were called the "Redcoats" and the Americans were called the "Bluecoats" ... I remember you.

Kid who stood in front of the flag from the Battle of Fort McHenry and dared to say, "Why does the national anthem have a question mark? Is that a typo?" I remember you too...

"Oh, say can you see, by the dawn's early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?"

Step one: Just write an introductory post already...

I've never been a fan of blogs. 

I've laughed at them, I've made fun of them, and I've sneered at them. And, as always, I find myself joining the bandwagon eons after everyone else. It happened with bellbottoms back in 7th grade, long sweaters in 9th grade, and now with blogs in my post-college graduation life.

Either I'm perpetually behind in fashions, or I'm daring to be different. 

For the sake of my ego, let's agree that it's the second option... 

 

*****

This blog is coming into existence for a number of reasons: 

1 - I'm one of the few ... the proud ... the unmarried. With all the rest of my friends getting married at an alarming pace, I've found myself utilizing blogs to keep track of their doings more and more. It's the pattern of the 21st century - you get married, and then you start a blog. I suppose I'm feeling left out. But now I'll declare my independence! I don't need a husband to have a blog! (I should put that slogan on T-shirts and sell them in Provo.) 

2 - I'm suffering from an acute, advanced state of writer's block. For a journalist, historian, and creative writer, it's a terrifying position to be in. Writing is my life. Words are my sustenance. Without them, my poor, tired mind is full of uncertainty, distress, and more than a little bit of self-doubt. "Maybe I'm a bad writer, maybe I never could write, maybe all those history papers that helped me get a degree were a fluke." Oh! The horrors! 

Either way, I'm hoping that a little bit of free writing will help get the literary juices flowing again. 

3 - Odd things perpetually happen to me, and sometimes the need to share them with the world is overwhelming. For instance, the Green Peace animal activist who accosted me in the grocery store and tried to convince me to buy animal-friendly makeup and to never eat cows again? He needs to be written about. Driving down the street and seeing a man about to jump off a building above me? That needs to be written about. Blocking up an entire Salt Lake City road with my dad's Mercedes in the middle of the "end-of-the-world" blizzard that hit Utah? That needs a post too. 

4 - I need a place to write my political rants. You don't have to read them - I just have to write them.

And finally: 

5 - People keep telling me to get a blog. Okay. Done. 

I'm terrible at keeping others in the loop about my life. Because of that, every time I see an old friend, I end up having to update them on months and months of my activities. Maybe this will help alleviate the problem. If it does, it will be a huge relief to us all, including me.

*****

The reason I've been so anti-blog for so long is simple: they're self-indulgent. Nobody wants to read what you ate for breakfast (zzzz...), or how you're such a bad person and you need to improve your life (waaa!), or how super great you think you are (yay me!)

Keeping that in mind, I'll try to make this mostly fluffy, fun, and as non-self-indulgent as possible. Because I am an emotional void, I don't do introspective and I don't do whining. Eliminate those and I'm pretty much a blob of sarcasm. It scares people, but it keeps life interesting.

So, to get the lame part about me out of the way from the start, I'll update everybody on where I am with life. I graduated from college in April with degrees in journalism and history. Right before graduation I got word that the Deseret News was looking for an intern. Since I hadn't even started applying for jobs, I basically said, "Hey, I can do it," and I was hired, just like that. No portfolios, no job interview, and no resumes. Fate? Maybe. Luck? Definitely.

Since that time I've been hired to work for the Army (more on that in another post) and I've applied to become a teacher (some other post, maybe). Even so, I'm still working at the Des (stupid Congress) as a full-time employee. I'm living in Salt Lake, working a lot, and waiting for my ship to come in.

There. Enough about me.

On with the show.