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.

I turned a corner...

Guys, I'm just coming out of an infatuation recovery phase, and it's not cool...

Let me explain.

For this to make sense, you have to understand that I generally have the emotional range of a pineapple. A coworker once called me "Queen Stoic," which is a scarily accurate description. It takes a lot to get me excited (although generally anything Disney will do it) and it takes even more to make me angry. (Although once I'm angry I'll remember it forever and get angry all over again when I think about it — stupid girl who made the disgusting claims about American soldiers in Iraq or nutty BYU professor who wouldn't stop emailing me...)

So basically, my emotions are flatlined most of the time, like this:

(Unless I'm driving, in which case I generally look like this:)

Of course, my road rage is an entirely different story...

But then sometimes, unexpectedly and unavoidably, I get infatuated. When that happens, my emotions start going like this:

Those, folks, are a whole lot of emotions for someone who was quite possibly born without them.

Like I've mentioned before (here) I tend to get obsessed with things. Over the past couple of months I've been obsessed with the TV shows "Top Gear" and "Primeval," along with a movie too embarrassing to name. I also went through a brief bracelet phase for some reason, and I'm on the verge of falling into a steampunk/industrial chic phase. (Although "The Guild" is helping me stay on the straight and narrow... must... avoid... the Eurotrash of nerdom...)

Anyway, you'd think with my habit of obsessing, infatuations would be par for the course. Unfortunately, that's not true. I can count maybe five times I've been infatuated over the last five years, and most of those lasted about a week. This infatuation lasted almost an entire month, which is a big deal. When it comes to relationships, it turns out I have the attention span of

 SQUIRREL!

Ahem.

Like I was saying, I spent the better part of September being infatuated. It doesn't matter with whom (although a couple of you will know) it just matters that I was. That happened. And it was glorious while it lasted. You see, I embrace being infatuated because there's a huge gap between the imaginary relationship and the factual reality. From a safe distance, I could imagine the guy was perfect. In my mind, the object of my infatuation wasn't creepily obsessed (P), wasn't controlling (H), didn't insist on touching me all. of. the. time. (CC) and didn't think that my life's ambition was to cook him dinner and wash his socks (J).

(Gee. When I look at the boys I've dated in such black-and-white terms... well, no wonder I prefer to be infatuated from afar... Bunch of winners, there...)

After all, like Marguerite says in "The Scarlet Pimpernel,"

"Ah, but my prince, if you can't be as sweet as you seem
I'd rather dream." 

After the infatuation ended (out of necessity, not because I was ready for it to happen, I assure you) I decided that — as depressing as the post-infatuation period is — the weird emotional swings associated with my silly infatuations are worth it. Why? Because infatuations are fun! Like one of my friends said, my infatuations (as odd as they tend to be) are good because they allow me to feel real, human emotions once in a while.

When you're infatuated with somebody, suddenly life becomes more exciting. In my case, it gave me excuses to dress up, to curl my hair, and to feel my heart give that “thump-thump” people write about in cheesy romance novels. I spent more time downtown in the vague hope that there would be a chance meeting. There was always that sense of anticipation — of hope, of wondering — if the next corner I turned could lead me straight into his arms. It was an eternal quest for an orchestrated “meet-cute,” and it was a blast.

I’ll admit, there’s a reason my favorite Beatles song begins like this… 

I’ve just seen a face, 

I can’t forget the time or place

Where we just met, she’s just the girl for me

And I want all the world to see we’ve met 

Na na na na na na 

And there’s a reason my favorite song from “Thoroughly Modern Millie” happens to include… 

Thousands of people

Way down below

Wandering to and fro 

Tireless people

No time to lose

Crowding the avenues and parks 

On their marks

Racing fast; quite a cast

Millions of people, pick any two 

They could be just like 

You and me used to be

Way back when, strangers, then – 

I turned the corner

And there you stood

Your smile like home to me 

Your heart familiar

No use pretending, not that I could

I turned the corner when I met you 

You see, somewhere deep down in this cold, hard heart of mine, I’m 100% a romantic. (Albeit a cynical and therefore confused one, of course.) I find the whole concept of love fascinating — possibly because I’ve seen so many of my friends get married off. (Dang friends.) Think about it — we spend our whole lives waiting to fall in love. And then, unexpectedly, with one chance meeting, one cheerful conversation, or one enjoyable date, your life can be turned upside down. Now that's power.

Infatuation's not quite that powerful, but I suppose it could be considered a warm-up. Although...

It would probably be more powerful if I were actually brave enough to say hello to the target. Hmmm.

A political problem

I've been interested in politics for a long time, most likely because I was raised on a steady diet of talk radio. Yes, this means Rush Limbaugh. I know, the very name is enough to make some people recoil in horror. If it offends you... I've got more...

Michael Medved!

Sean Hannity!

Ann Coulter!

(Who, incidentally, is one of the funniest people I've ever met. People need to stop taking her and other talk radio personalities so seriously and — as Herman Cain says — get a sense of humor.)

I thought I was pretty politically aware in high school, but working in Washington taught me more than I could have imagined. That's where I gained my real political knowledge. In the process of learning about hearings, bill markup sessions, and legislation, I became a political wonk.

This is a problem.

Why is it a problem, you might ask?

Because once you become politically aware, suddenly everything becomes political.

AAARGH.

For instance, I recently went to the touring Broadway production of "Mary Poppins." (Which I highly recommend, by the way. If you go, watch Bert, because Nicolas Dromard seriously steals the show.)

Witnessing a crime in action: Shameless scene stealing!

The first time I saw it (yes, I went back more than once...oops...) I was unexpectedly hit with politics during the first act, which jerked me straight out of the feel-good Disney-ish experience. It wasn't the musical's fault — or intention — it was mine. The culprit was a song called, "Precision and Order."

To most people, it's probably just a song about the stodgy Mr. Banks and his job at the... well, bank. But I heard so much more! If my "Mary Poppins" visit hadn't been on the same day as President Obama's "Pass this bill" jobs speech, I probably wouldn't have thought much of it, but the unfortunate circumstances made the political comparison hard to ignore.

During the song, Mr. Banks has a conversation with Mr. Von Hossler, who wants a loan:

VH: "Eh, Banks, what objections can you have? My securities are more than adequate and Latin America is an expanding market. What's the matter? Have you no courage?!"

B: "But Mr. Von Hossler, what I haven't been able to grasp is, what exactly is your final product?"

VH: "What do you think?! Money, of course!"

B: "But making money out of money? Is it enough?"

POLITICS! BAM!

During Obama's speech, he called for more government spending as a way to increase jobs. Never mind that the first stimulus was a bust — he wants a second one, and he wants it NOW! The president seems convinced that he can create jobs (and money) out of money.

It's a little South Park Underpants Gnomes, if you know what I mean.

Phase 1: Collect underpants.

Phase 2: ?

Phase 3: Profit

The musical continued with a visit from a man named Northbrook, who was also seeking a loan:

N: "Have you come to your decision, Mr. Banks? There's a town and good people whose future depends on you."

B: "I know that."

N: "Give us a chance. You won't regret it. The factory could be running in weeks. (Singing) My men have dreams to earn an honest living; a wife and kids, a home to call their own."

In the end, Mr. Banks chose to give the loan to a "good man" rather than what seemed like a good idea 

A man with dreams that life hasn't broken

A man with hopes, ambitions to fulfill

A man you're certain at first glance deserves a chance

Of course, the first plan — making money out of money — failed spectacularly, while the second plan — betting on individual ingenuity, willingness to work, and a real business plan — succeeded.

Who could've seen that coming? (Oh wait — I could have. And so could anybody with an appreciation for the innate human desire for self-sufficiency and honest labor.)

Politics tend to ruin my movie experiences too. For instance, I will never see the movie "Avatar" because you're supposed to cheer when U.S. Marines die. Don't believe me? Ask James Cameron. Maybe I'm being too sensitive (although Nile Gardiner and the Marines don't think so) but I've already seen "Fern Gully," "Pocahontas," and "Dances with Wolves" anyway.

I haven't seen "G.I. Joe" for political reasons either — the filmmakers pandered to a global audience by removing the American aspect of the G.I. Joe franchise. It reportedly only made $100 million overseas. "Captain America," on the other hand, has made $178 million overseas so far. Go figure.

Aside from seeing politics in Hollywood (ugh), there are additional problems as well. There are loads of political jokes that are absolutely hilarious, but you have to be a "special" sort of wonk to understand them. For instance, I once stumbled across this comment string on a political website:

"Sheila must have forgotten her meds this AM."

"Rumor has it that Sheila Jackson Lee is actually Cynthia McKinney on meds. This is as well as she gets."

"You should have seen her when she was Maxine Waters."

Hilarious. But you know those jokes that become un-funny when you have to explain them? Yeah...

In other cases, people see a car commercial:

I see political commentary: "You drivers are idiots! Your highways are underfunded, so pay more taxes! Check your tires, moron! You're too stupid to drive! Let us take care of you, simpletons!"

It seems odd that Audi is trying to sell cars by insulting buyers, but maybe I'm just imagining things.

If Audi REALLY wants to insert politics into ads, they might want to take a cue from Ford.

Better.

Sometimes, the curse of seeing politics in everything — music, TV, Tweets, video games, movies, interviews with celebrities, advertising campaigns, etc. — is enough to make me long for the good ol' days when I didn't know anything. Sometimes it makes me envious of friends and family members who blithely ignore everything political. One of my younger brothers is so averse to politics that he'll change the subject, leave the room, or shut out the discussions when political topics come up. 

Sometimes I wonder which one of us is happier — although I never wonder which of us is better off.

ADDENDUM: Get this - Ford pulled the ad. There are all kinds of rumors out today that the White House pressured them to do it. But this is the modern age - once it's out there, it's not going anywhere. Haha! Particularly not if the actual guy in the commercial has anything to say about it...

An additional and unrelated note on kitsch

I've been reading a lot of rubbish, kitschy period romance novels recently. Why? Because I got them for free and I feel like I should read them before I throw them in the trash.

(Well, technically the recycling bin...)

Anyhow.

I've come up with three pieces of advice, should you ever feel like becoming an author and delving into the ridiculously stupid and absurd world of heaving bosoms and ripped bodices:

1. Always send your characters to the ton.  

Despite being an Austen/Gaskell/Bronte fan and having seen almost every period piece film ever made, I had never heard this term before. Apparently it's pronounced "tone" and is used to refer to Britain's upper class during the Regency/Georgian era. At least, that's what Wikipedia says...

Either way, your characters must spend time talking about the ton and attending parties with the ton — and you'd better always italicize it, like a good little Chicago Manual of Style user.

2. Always, always, always make your characters idiotic. 

They should never behave like people at the time really did. (Although, let's face it, books where the characters are true to the time period can be MAJORLY boring... a la Fanny of "Mansfield Park"... Poor Fanny was the most dreary character ever written until Bella Swan came around...)

They should always be beautiful and exotic looking. (How can a girl with blonde hair and blue eyes look exotic? A real romance author can make it happen!) The main male character should act like a fop and be a complete skeeze while the woman is always innocent and pure. ALWAYS. And they should never have a conversation before falling in love. Instead, they should proclaim their love and pine away before finding out anything — anything — about the other person.

And finally... (This is my favorite, by far.)

3. Make sure your impossibly perfect main character has a loyal older servant with a 100% improbable name. 

I'm not making this up — the last two books I read had loyal older servants with the names "Crookshank" and "Wigglesworth." Because those are the sort of last names you encounter on a daily basis, right? Britain is just chock-full of Crookshanks and Wigglesworths.

There you go: three easy steps to getting a vulgar period piece romance novel published.

Or you could just write any old book and make your characters vampires. That also seems to work...

In which I slept through a big palaver

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You get the picture.

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

BUT

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

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

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

The pounding and shouting continued.

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

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

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

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

 "Where is she?" a girl asked.

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

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

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

WHAT THE HECK!!?!!?!!! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh," I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not sleeping through most of it. Daggnabit.

The secret life of an American Jackie

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

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

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

But that was more flattering than embarrassing, really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have to get over it for three main reasons.

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

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

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

1. Brianda. Royal. Jeremy.

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

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

4. Triad!

5. And the sequel to that...

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

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

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

9. And their sequel as well.

See? It's getting outrageous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah, the confused existence of an embarrassed writer.