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...

The universe decided I should go back to high school

Seriously. There's no other way to explain it.

We all know people who loved high school, right? They thought high school was awesome — and let's face it — high school does play a critical role in your formative years. But even though I recognize high school's importance, my attitude toward the whole experience was (and is) essentially this:

Meh.

Sure, I had a good time. I did drill team, band, National Honor Society, the school newspaper, and all that stuff. I went to the dances (or, more importantly, to ogle the opposing teams at McDonald's BEFORE the dances) and made some great friends. But drama and other garbage piled up, so by the time graduation came around, I was ready to go.

(Okay, let's be honest — I was ready to go MONTHS before, but still...) 

Six years later, I can see having the universe give me a little jab in the ribs — "Hey, Jackie, remember high school? Yeah. High school!"

But the universe suddenly decided I needed to go back to 2005 not once, but three times.

Three times!

Usually when movies or books send their characters backward, it's so they can learn some important lesson. Er... I didn't learn anything. So that was a big, fat universe fail. BUT, on the other hand, it did make for a weird month...

Two of the high school reminders came courtesy of my younger brother, who will graduate this year. First of all, he was named the high school's General Sterling Scholar, which meant that he needed to put together a book showing his high school activities. At the Sterling Scholar competition, he'll present his book to the judges and they'll interview him as he competes for a scholarship.

Now, I was the school's English Sterling Scholar back in 2005. Since my main focus was journalism, I made my book look like a newspaper. I spent hours, and hours, and hours laying out that book, and it was pretty dang awesome.

In the end, though, it was all for naught, since the daughter of the lady organizing the competition won. Nepotism stinks. It was a major bummer.

But hey, I'm a glutton for punishment! When my brother started talking about laying out his book, I offered to help. Suddenly I was delving into the depths of hyperbole via National Honor Society, high school sports, and various clubs. It was stuff I hadn't thought about for years. So, yeah ... I returned to high school ... And it taught me this:

If I had the awesome BS-ing and InDesign skills college helped me develop, my book could've blown the judge's heads off. That, in turn means that getting two degrees wasn't a total waste, as long as it gave me the power to blow heads off...

Not mine - this is from 2007 - but this was my InDesign level back then.

See? College wasn't a waste, yeah?

I mean, dude, I got awards for this stuff. Not a waste!

The second event that took me back to high school again came courtesy of my brother. I ran home for a visit last weekend and discovered I had the fortunate (?) timing to arrive right in the middle of the prom rush. 

Yep. I went back to prom.

Well, I didn't seriously go to prom. That would've been weird and creepy. Dad calls those kids the "Moldy Oldies," and I'd hate to be a moldy oldie...

But my old high school has this thing called "promenade." Do other schools do this? It's where the whole community piles into the high school auditorium, and then each of the prom couples walk out, do something awkward (wave, smile uncomfortably, or this year, do a butt shake at the crowd), and then walk off. It's a good chance for parents to get pictures and for kids to show off their outfits. 

Promenade also happens to be the setting for my absolute favorite high school memory, so it was weird to return to that. Most of my high school experiences have faded into a mush of memory, but I distinctly remember promenade for two reasons. 

1. When I walked out with my date, the crowd gasped. Yeah, that's right. I was hot. (Okay, not really. Well, I mean, they really did gasp, but it was just because I had a gorgeous dress. Royal blue, covered in glittering beads, super great.) It was good for my ego.

But more importantly:

2. After my date and I walked offstage, we stood at the auditorium door to wait for my friend and her date to follow. To my surprise, though, they were really slow getting outside. I couldn't figure out what was holding them up — maybe they got lost? Maybe they went off the wrong direction? Finally they emerged with my friend sporting the prom queen banner and crown.

HIGHLIGHT OF MY LIFE!

That's right, Bree Anne, your being crowned prom queen was my best high school memory. Bet you didn't know that, did you? It was just one of those moments where the greatest person you know finally gets the recognition they deserve. Those moments are (sadly) far too rare, so you have to relish them when they come.

I'd attach a picture of the event, but I don't have one of those just lying around. Hey! I'm not in high school! I'm a big-time college graduate! We don't have time for stuff like that! 

(Kidding, kidding. But seriously, I don't have a picture, so I'm not kidding about that.)

And finally, and most unexpectedly, I went to see Hale Centre Theatre's production of "Tale of Two Cities."

What are the odds I'd get a high school reminder there? 

Before I saw it, I would've said nil, zip, zero.

After I saw, it, though, I'd have to say 100 percent. 

Because it happened.

I went to the play with my friend Kenna, and afterward I was perusing the cast list when a name jumped out. Now, the kid wasn't from my high school, but he was from the next high school over, and I had seen him perform before. Twice, actually, in "Les Miserables" and "The Secret Garden."

I remember watching him as Jean Val Jean and thinking, "Please, please, Rhett Richins, leave the Basin!" His talent as a singer blew me away as a little sophomore, which is why I remembered his name all these years later.

And see that? I just threw his name out there. That's right, Rhett, I'm that weird girl who asked you if you were from Vernal. Normally I don't talk to performers after a show (why bother? They know they're amazing) but I broke that rule because I was hoping that he had indeed left the Basin. Turns out he did, and now he's sharing his beautiful voice in Salt Lake. Basin success story!

Seeing Rhett perform took me way, waaaay back to high school in a drastic way. It was like an association game: see a kid from Vernal = get snapped back to ballet classes at the Powerhouse Theatre, performing in "The Nutcracker" and other ballets, hanging out with Vernal kids, being in love with a certain Javert, etc.

(Incidentally, Carolyn, Rachel, if you want to play high school crush poker, my crush could totally smash your crushes... General Sterling Scholar (I think he got a 35 on his ACT), lead in the school musicals, ballroom dancer, great hair, and on the football team. That's like a royal flush.)

Good times, good times.

Hopefully the universe is done shoving me back to my high school years, though. High school was six years ago, and I'd like to keep it back there. 

But "Tale of Two Cities" was awesome. I probably should've mentioned that before it closed.

Oops.

In which my obsessions make me look like a weirdy

I  measure my life by obsessions. 

That may not be the proper word, actually. It might be more truthful to say that I go through "phases." I can trace my entire life history through a diverse mix of fixations, or hobbies, or passions, or whatever you want to call them. While I'd like to say that periods of obsession make me a better person, the truth is, they really just make me look like a freak.

But a well-rounded freak, all the same...

The first identifiable period of obsession started when I was five or six. I became fixated with the idea of having long, dark hair. Since I'm naturally a blonde, that was a problem. I also sported a pixie/Peter Pan-type hairstyle when I was little, which made long dark hair even more of a problem. Impossibilities never stopped me though. I remember taking long pieces of dark fabric and clipping them to my hair. I tried to style my crushed velvet "hair" like Princess Jasmine and I pretended I was Tina from that old TV show "Ghostwriter." 

The hair dream naturally segued me into my next period of obsession... Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. Trini had long, dark hair, see? It makes sense. I actually revisited this obsession back in 2009, which was pretty hilarious. The 1993 obsession meant that I spent my childhood doing a lot of karate kicks, convincing my brothers to "play Power Rangers" and having save-the-world delusions of grandeur. The 2009  obsession meant that I watched all the episodes on YouTube and made the theme song my ringtone. Ah, how times change...

Other obsessions followed, but those were the biggies for my early years. I went through a Bobbsey Twins phase, and then a Sweet Valley twins obsession. I was convinced for a while that my best friend and I were twins who had been separated at birth. (What? It made sense to a second grader — her birthday was four days before mine. It could have been a really, really prolonged labor, right?) I never could quite work out whose parents were lying about the situation, though, so eventually I gave up on that theory. I read all the Baby-sitter's Club books and all of the Boxcar Children books too, which I guess could count as an obsession.

Third grade might have been the most significant year of my life, because that was when my love of history became truly solidified. I blame third grade for my almost-useless bachelor's degree. Most third graders didn't obsess about pioneers and Indians, but I did. 

Utah history was the best thing ever. I made my brothers dress up like pioneers for Halloween. I read all of the Laura Ingalls Wilder books repeatedly. I wore pioneer dresses and stood outside in the weeds, because that was the sort of thing pioneers did. I wrote plays about pioneers and Indians and tried to get my dad to build me a pioneer playhouse. My favorite American Girl was Kirsten the pioneer — until I realized her name was Kirsten and not KRisten. K-ear-sten? Gross.

Many of my obsessions were built around books. "Ella Enchanted" launched a brief (but ecstatic) castle/prince/princess phase. The "Prelude to Glory" series taught me more about the American Revolution than any (and all) of my history classes combined. My American Revolution phase is why I'm naming one of my future sons Ethan. The Green Mountain Boys rock. General Arthur St. Claire became my buddy, James Madison my hero, and Friedrich Wilhelm Augustus von Steuben my Prussian rock star. A book about Anastasia launched my sixth grade czar obsession. Another book about the Titanic led to massive amounts of Titanic research.

When "The Phantom Menace" came out, I went on a hardcore Star Wars binge. I collected all the action figures, learned the names of every Jedi who ever saw even a second of screen time, and attempted to send George Lucas costume sketches for Queen Amidala. (Did you know you need zip codes to send stuff? Huh.) Since I was deeply against the Amidala/Anakin romance (it was an age difference thing) I formulated my own storyline where there wasn't a gross age gap. (What do they call Cougars in outer space anyway?) My Star Wars phase prompted me to write my first book, for which I'll always be grateful. Once I realized the new movies were terrible, I turned to the originals and learned everything from Wedge's backstory to Mon Mothma's name. (Let's face it — who else knows that?) While everyone else swooned over Hayden Christensen's uber-dull Anakin, I became an Adi Gallia fan. Super nerd alert.

My 9th/10th grade obsession was Josh Groban. My friends will remember this period — it was a doozy. I stalked him obsessively online, recorded his website sample songs from the speakers of my computer, perused his fan boards for news of his doings, pretended to like dark chocolate (like him) and began to claim that the type of car he drove was my favorite type too. (It's not, although it is one of the few types of cars I can now identify.) Josh was my first concert, which is supposedly a big milestone in a person's life. I still think he's got amazing talent, but now I'm not too blinded by his loveliness to ignore the fact that his vibrato is a tad annoying. If I ever ran into him on the street, I like to think that I'd tell him that instead of asking for an autograph...But it's totally not true...

When I went to college my roommates got sucked into my whirlwind obsessions. They endured the extended musical theater period (courtesy of a certain missionary — you know who you are). They joined me for the junior year Beatles phase, which included multiple viewings of the odd-yet-amusing "Help!" and "A Hard Day's Night." I'll never be able to hear the song, "And Your Bird Can Sing" without giggling hysterically, thanks to an outtake from the Anthology 2 album.

The roommates just laughed at me through the Tom Clancy period, but they laughed at me even more for the Kennedy period — not JFK, but RFK. I read biographies for fun and watched "Thirteen Days" repeatedly. Naturally, that led to a Stephen Culp phase, where I searched online for the few episodes of JAG where his character appeared. I emerged from this whole period with a big appreciation for Robert Kennedy, but he's the only one...

And finally, thanks to my roommate, I joined the Doctor Whoniverse right before finals on my second-to-last semester in college. It was terrible timing, but David Tennant was worth every stressful second.

There's really no rhyme or reason to the madness. One day I'll see something that tickles my fancy, and then it's all downhill from there. I'll run the obsession ragged until there's nothing left for it give, and then I'll move on. Since January of this year I've gone through a Regency England period, complete with the BBC movies, the proper music, and new book purchases. From there it swung abruptly into a "Firefly" period, where I ended up with the DVD set and spent hours watching YouTube cast appearances at nerd conventions. From there it morphed into a Disney Channel stint (shameful, I know.) (Not "Hannah Montana" or anything, but "Jonas" and "Hatching Pete" do have their charms.)

And finally, for the time being, I've landed on the movie "Taking 5" and, courtesy of the film, the band "The Click Five." The old group, not the new one so much.

Eric Dill or Joey Zehr, next time we visit my grandparents and then go to Cedar Point, consider yourselves invited to come along.

Unless, of course, I'm obsessing about something else at that point... And the odds are not in your favor.

Addendum: Silly me, I completely forgot to mention my Care Bears phase (lots of eBay purchases) my Lord of the Rings phase (a full Galadriel costume, anyone?) my Doris Day phase (which naturally led to a Gordon MacRae phase) and my multiple Scarlet Pimpernel phases (They seek him here, They seek him there...)

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.