Why Blondes and Cars Don't Mix...

Today I had my first experience with AAA. I had to call them because I had a flat tire. What happened? I drove over a nail. Where was I when I got the flat? I'm not sure. I was at home, with my car parked safely in the driveway, when I noticed that my rear driver wheel was slowly deflating.

Since my upper-body strength is nonexistent, I recruited my dad to "help me" (aka take over completely) remove the faulty wheel. But the bolts were on really tight, so my dad couldn't get them unscrewed. He was really frustrated. He blamed it on those groovy guns mechanics use to get those bolts super-sealed.

"Well," he said, grimacing at me. "Call AAA."
"For a flat tire?" I said (stupid question, I know!)
"Well, yeah. What else are you gonna do? We're not going to get the tire off ourselves."

So I found my AAA card...only to discover that it had expired in February. After a frenzied phone call to my mom (she's in charge of AAA stuff and currently out of town), I called AAA and renewed our membership:

(after the renewal process was complete)
Sally: "Is there anything else I can help you with?"
Me: "I just need to know, is the renewal effective immediately?"
Sally: "It's in effect as we speak. Are you in need of assistance?"
Me: "Yes, actually."

Sally transferred me to Services, where Will lead me through the standard questions to figure out my situation. This was my favorite part of the exchange:

Will: "Are you in a safe location away from further harm?"
Me: "Yes, I'm at home."
Will: "Alright, your car is parked in the garage?"
Me: "Not exactly."
Will: "So it's out on the street?"
Me: "Well, no. It's in the driveway. We have a carport."
Will: "I see...but it's somewhere where we can send a guy out to fix it?"
Me: "Yes." (finally, a simple question and answer!)

The guy who came to wrestle with my tire brought a fancy carjack that made my puny one look like a piece of scrap metal. When he was finished, I threw the bum tire in my trunk and zipped off to the Honda dealership. When I got there I told the guy:

Me: "I've got a tire with a nail in it in the back."
Guy: "Is it the rear passenger?"
Me: "No, the driver's side."

About 20 minutes later, a different guy retrieved me from the waiting room...

Guy 2: "We looked at your back wheels, but couldn't find a nail anywhere. The tire looks fine."
Me: "No, no, the bad tire is in my trunk. I couldn't drive here on it."
Guy: (looks confused, checks his written report) "That's not what the guy up front said. He didn't mention that. He just said it was the tire on the driver's side in the back."
Me: "Oh, no. I did say that to him, but when I said 'back' I meant 'trunk.' I'm sorry for the miscommunication."

Guy 2 was really nice about the whole thing. I'm sure he was thinking: Just another blonde chick, living up to her reputation as a moron.As for me, I was thinking, You are such a toe-headed bonehead! No wonder there are so many not-nice Blonde Jokes!

And that is why cars and blondes (this blonde, anyway) are a problematic combination!

"Top o' the mornin' to ye!"

In the United States, we are notorious for our over-indulgence habit. We frequently look for excuses to consume excess amounts of food and drink, guilt-free.

Our biggest excuse? Holidays.

I've already lamented the sugary spectacle that Valentine's Day has become.
Next up: St. Patrick's Day.
Barely a month after an excess of candy hearts and chocolate, we have beer. Lots and lots of beer. Frequently the beverage will be dyed green, the color associated with with the Ireland-originated celebration.

Speaking of origins, I decided to find out exactly what green beer has to do with St. Patrick. So, again out of curiosity, I researched the origin of the mid-March holiday.

Turns out, beer and St. Patrick are as compatible as St. Valentine and chocolate.
Which is, to say, not at all.
According to one account of the legend:

"...as it happened, a certain 16-year-old Welsh lad [named Maewyn] was kidnapped by [a band of] Irish marauders, and during the six years Maewyn spent in servitude as a shepherd in Ireland he experienced a religious awakening, then spent years studying in a monastery. He took on a new name, Patrick, and a new calling — converting his countrymen to Christianity.

Patrick certainly had the luck of the Irish — as a young man he escaped the captors who enslaved him, and several times later in life he escaped arrest by the druids who didn't appreciate his missionary activities in their midst.

He was successful at his chosen mission, too, founding schools and churches and performing baptisms; within 200 years Ireland was a Christian country. The shamrock, a trifoliate clover, became his cleverest teaching tool, which he used to explain the Trinity — three elements forming one entity...

There is some blarney in the stories about Patrick, too, most notably the one which has him delivering a sermon on a hilltop and thereby banishing the country's snakes. Unless one understands this symbolically to refer to pagan practices, it can't be true, for Ireland had no native snakes."

At least the legend briefly mentions 3-leaf clovers, a symbol of Irish folklore and a staple of the Americanized holiday imagery. Well, technically we idolize the "lucky" four-leaf clover. But how many people actually know why a 4-leaf clover is lucky??
According to Irish lore, the leaves of a typical 3-leaf clover stand for hope, faith, and love, respectively.

As for the extra leaf on a four-leaf clover...

...it stands for luck!

And then there's the drinking thing. Did you know that Ireland used to close all pubs on St. Patrick's Day? People went to church all day instead, since St. Patrick was a holy man and March 17 was considered a holy day. I mean holiday. Hm...

Ireland is famous for producing Guinness, but that happened centuries after the death of St. Patrick, the man we now "celebrate" by consuming countless pints of the fizzy libation.
When I say "we," I'm referring to the collective United States. I, personally, drink very little beer (it's too bitter for my taste). I prefer a nice emerald-green Sprite.

Whether you choose to pay homage to beer, religious doctrines, or Irish folklore, have a fun and safe day!
And don't forget to wear some green...otherwise you might get pinched!

Sticky Fingers

Today I had an amusing conversation with a 4 year old boy about stealing:

Harris: "Bad guys do do bad things. Swiper is a very bad guy. He steals things." (Swiper is the fox from Dora the Explorer. He is notorious for his thievery).
Me: "That's right. Swiper is a thief."
Harris: "And he's a robber."
Me: "That's another name for it."

Whatever you call it, stealing is wrong. Even kleptomaniacs*(like Swiper) are capable of recognizing that their compulsions are a problem. They just have a harder time putting an end to the poor behavior.

*Kleptomania: an irresistible impulse to steal, stemming from emotional disturbance rather than economic need.

When I was slightly older than Harris, I went through what I now refer to as my "klepto" phase. My first two offenses were bookmarks I filched from Book Star (now owned by Barnes and Noble) on two separate occasions. The first time I pocketed the laminated cardboard strip, I felt a guilty thrill. The second time, I just felt guilty.
I did not steal from a store again. Instead I wrapped my sticky fingers around "less-consequential" items: those of my friends and family. I figured that stealing from them would make me less of a "bad guy" because the items had been paid for already- just not by me (remember I was only about 5!). I pocketed all sorts of trinkets over the next couple years: slap bracelets, My Little Ponies, Power Ranger trading cards, Pogs, marbles...all little things that I could take away in my pockets.
My life as a little thief was not particularly adventurous, and I wasn't particularly interested in changing that.
Until one night when I was about eight.
Some friends of my parents had a daughter a little younger than me. The daughter, Erica, had a stuffed toy that I coveted. When we were invited to her birthday party, I brought along a backpack, claiming I needed it for a change of clothes (which was actually true, since we were going to a swim party). I waited until everyone was outside before staking my claim on the toy, then stashed my now-bulging backpack under Erica's bed. When it was time to go, I wrapped my arms around my backpack in an attempt to hide its obvious growth. When my parents mentioned my pudgy pack, I told them Erica had said I could have her toy.
The theft of the stuffed animal was by far my biggest robbery, and my lie ate away at my conscience. Before long I confessed my crime to my parents, who insisted that I return the toy to Erica myself. They drove me over to her house, where I came face-to-face with her parents (Erica wasn't home). I figured that Erica's parents would be furious with me, but instead they invited me inside and offered me a root beer float. As I sat at their kitchen table slurping vanilla ice cream, my guilt intensified dramatically. I hadn't expected such kind understanding.
When we left a little while later, I still felt guilty. But mostly I felt relieved.
I have not stolen since.
I'm sure there's a name for a guilt-turned-relief-induced change in behavior, but even with my love of psychology I don't know what it is!
All I know is...
Don't be a Swiper!