D@mn That Grass.

It's always green somewhere in the world--only never where I am.

I have lived my life holding strong to the mantra "the grass is always greener on the other side of the hill." I don't mean to do this; I know it's totally fickle of me, and nobody likes a fickle woman {though some in my acquaintance would profess that "fickle woman" is totally redundant}.

Only in my case, the grass is always greener on the other side of the border. Any border. I always want to be wherever I'm not--it's a wretched affliction, truly. During July, outside of Arizona the grass will surely be greener. But amidst the frigid Canadian winters, there's no place I long to be more than my lush green City of Mesa.

It doesn't just have to do with the weather, however. When I am living the life of a single wife, visiting friends and family in Arizona, I miss Poor Kyle terribly and can hardly wait to see him again. But inevitably, as I re-pack my bags the night before I'm scheduled to return to his country, I once again mourn the loss of my family. I have two families, you know, and both of them love me so very much.

I would that everybody's trials could be so simple as deciding which loved ones to visit.

Of course there's really no question: I married Poor Kyle and now I'm stuck with him (hello dear!). I am stuck with him, but the phrase "stuck with" implies that it's against my will. I should say I'm stuck to him [but actually, that sounds a little less G-rated than I normally try to keep this blog. Dang]. Well at any rate, he and I will "be an item" forever, and not once have I regretted my choice to be his wife. *Mushy alert: I love him more with nearly every day that passes. I never even knew that having an understanding, calm and patient disposition would be a requirement of the man I married--it just happened that way, and I can see now it was absolutely necessary. In case any of you noticed, I'm not exactly the easiest person with whom to live. And that's the understatement of infinity.

I only wish that "cleaving unto my husband" as is preached in the Bible, didn't require to take me so far away from everyone else I dearly, dearly love.

I'm lucky I've been able to come down and visit so frequently this past year. To everyone I was able to bond with for the last two weeks: Thank you. I love you. I'll miss you. To those of you who I wanted to spend more time with, but was forced--for one reason or another--to neglect: I'm sorry. I love you. I'll miss you. And to anyone else who had hoped to meet/see/visit me and was totally shafted by how busy I was {I really don't know any person more vain than myself, to think of a whole city full of people who are sad they didn't get to see me this month}: I regret that, too.

Maybe for Christmas...

Is There Anything More Tedious in all the World?

I am an adult; twenty two years of age, officially. I pay taxes (when I have a job) and fill my own gas tank (when I can't get Poor Kyle to do it for me). I make my bed (almost always now), and cook dinner (such as it is). For all intents and purposes, I'm a grown-up.

Why, then, do I hate brushing my teeth? Why?

I'll tell you why:

1. It's so tedious. You want me to just...stand there? In front of the mirror? The two times during the day that I look my absolute worst? For how long? Three minutes? Please.

2. ...

Never mind. There's only that one reason.

It is, though. Tedious, I mean. Nevertheless, I do brush my teeth on a regular basis (once a week, like clockwork [just kidding!]). I just get so...bored. I always have. When I was a kid, and didn't understand about bad breath and social faux pas and what-not, I would go to school without brushing my teeth all the time. [I didn't have a lot of friends.] Then, the day before I had a dentist appointment, I would get all stressed out and try brushing my teeth every five minutes or so, and then ten times right before the dreaded hour. It never worked. I always came out with 20 more cavities than before.

The only thing that's changed since then is that, as an "adult," I'm fairly sure there's no way around brushing my teeth twice daily. (Although...I still don't have many friends. Maybe I'm on to something...)

Yet for some reason I really enjoy flossing. Tell me it's time to brush my teeth, and I'll procrastinate as long as I can. But flossing--it's the highlight of my day. With flossing, I actually get to see the fruits (or bread particles, or pepper) of my labor. It's like a treasure hunt in my mouth! Every evening before bed! [Being able to floss from the comfort of my lush bed might have something to do with my joy.]

I've decided I have to make a game out of brushing my teeth.

Maybe if my toothpaste was a little person with feet who jumped out of the drawer every time I went to the bathroom and sang cheerful songs while I brushed...then again, that might just make me need a therapist. Image from here.

But the only one I can think of is see-how-quickly-I-can-run-back-to-bed-and-catch-a-power-nap-while-brushing. And I tried it once, but the complications with my bed sheets were horrible. Not worth it.

So I'm turning to you. Do you get bored with brushing your teeth, too? What games do you play to make yourself do it?

No? Nothing?

Oh. How awkward.

{I Get Depressed Very Easily}

Did you know that I am tall? Indeed I am. I'm 6' 1" if I'm an inch.

It was a freak accident, if you ask me. My mother is 5' 8", and my dad is 6' 0", but my older sister didn't come out as tall as me--she's only 5' 8". And sure, there are tall cousins on both sides--two boys are well over six feet--but their parents are also all over six feet.

I don't know how or why, but they're my genes so I have learned to love them.

It hasn't always been this way, though. I used to wail and wallow in despair about how tall I was--no boys would ever like me, I was sure. I was as tall as an amazon, and as graceful as a duck. And I could never find pants long enough to fit my octopus legs. In my teenage head, I was doomed for a life of misery.

Eventually I learned that it didn't matter if boys never liked me--they were all jerks anyway. I came to embrace my duckish-demeanor, and try to laugh it off. But finding pants long enough has still been the curse of my existence.

It is a marvel to me that some people in the world can actually walk into Target™ and buy a pair of jeans off the rack for well under $50.00. The only place I have bought a pair of jeans since I was 16 has been the Buckle. Usually they range between $70.00 and $100.00 each [which, I know is a pittance compared to what some people spend on Sevens of the World or whatever those movie-star jeans are called. But alas. I am no movie star. And spending $50.00 a leg just to be decent in public is a lot of money for me].

So you can imagine how I feel when this sort of thing happens to me:

All I Really Need to Know I Learned From "Saved by the Bell"

Dadgummit. They got the ducks again.

Any child of the '80s will recall that episode of Saved by the Bell--the episode that impacted young minds more powerfully than any other [save perhaps the one wherein Jessie had a drug-induced nervous breakdown]. It was the the time when Bayside struck oil and decided to hire an oil company to drill on the football field; the plan was to make Bayside High a first-rate prep school with the oil profits. Unfortunately, there was an oil spill that caused the deaths of the entire student population's science projects: Becky the Duck, in particular.

*Photos from x-entertainment.com*

Even before I found these photos online, I could clearly envision the sight of that poor dead duck, black and slick with spilled oil that had invaded her home--the nearby pond. She was dead--dead...and all because of the greediness of humanity. I must have only been six or seven when I first saw that episode, yet the images were so real and urgent that I have remembered them vividly after 15 years.

And now it's happened again, only in real life. Only this time it wasn't an oil spill that was to blame--it was an oil wasteland. These wastelands are toxic ponds, which are the dump sites for Syncrude™, a northern Alberta oil sand company (there's sand up there that is saturated with oil and people dedicate their lives to the extraction of this finite resource [hence "oil sands"]). In other words, there are specific designated areas for Syncrude™ to dump their toxic sludge. That's all fine and well, except for the 500 migrating ducks which landed in the toxic waste on Monday, all but five of which became oil-logged and sank almost immediately. These designated toxic areas that are not new; they've been a part of the company since its beginnings. In fact, Syncrude™ spokespeople claim this is the first time the birds have landed in 30 years. They seem to consider this a positive point--I think they should be embarrassed. Shouldn't they know by now that this is not okay?

It also begs the question, "If Syncrude™ has been dealing with migrating fowl for at least 30 years, what was the major oversight this season, that wiped out entire flocks of living animals?"

See, normally the oil company places sonic-wave noisemakers [pictured above, from aquaticeco.com] in the vicinity of the hazardous areas, which serve to deter flying animals from landing thereabouts. This season, it was snowing. Snowing. Evidently it was snowing a great deal--it would have to be, since that is Syncrude's™ only excuse for their oversight. On the other hand, the ducks were still flying around up there; how bad a snowfall could it have been? And if it was, in fact, snowing too heavily for the ducks to fly, it has since stopped; surely there was enough time to prepare for the annual migration.

Anyway, I think it's all a load of nonsense, and I hope Syncrude™ learns from their mistake (hopefully a lesson in the form of a mega-fine, which could amount to $1,000,000, according to the New York Times). It should not be happening. There is absolutely no excuse for such ignorance. A lot of people (my older sister, for sure) will be inclined to think, "Oh, Camille, it's just 500 ducks. Canada has lots more where those came from. You're overreacting." But that is exactly the mentality we need to fight:

If you're going to take a passive stand, you may as well just lay back down.

The future of our planet is at stake. Our ecosystem is fragile enough without these monstrous companies killing off hundreds of animals...even if it is only every 30 years.

Ford™ Has Something Stuck in Its Teeth and I'm Not Breaking the News

Ford™ is claiming their vehicles are now equal to the quality of Toyota™.

Really?


I heard them say so in three of their own commercials tonight during intermissions of American Idol™. I'm no marketing executive or anything, but if I were, I certainly wouldn't be equating my product's quality with my toughest competitors'. After all, the point of paying for a commercial on national television is to influence consumers to buy a specific product--namely, your own product, if you're happen to be the one creating the commercial. The point is not, I daresay, to confuse your target audience by telling them that your product is every bit as good as the other guy's. All that does is make the brands blur together, when what Ford™ should be doing is making their cars stand out.

If I were creating these commercials, I would be telling the world that my crossover-hybrid-blah-blah-blah is not as good as Toyota's™--it's superior.


And what's the deal with Ford™ claiming that their cars are now as good as Toyota's™--you mean, Ford™, that they weren't so great last year? You mean that only now are you getting your act in gear (excuse the pun)? You're telling us that the past few years were a struggle for you, but in these "times of economic difficulty" [as George Dubbleya would say], you've finally made a comeback and are now--only now--starting to match the quality of your competitors? I'm pretty sure that's a weakness I wouldn't want to be proclaiming in commercials between segments of American Idol™.

Instead, I would highlight my company's newest technology, thrilling innovations, five-star safety ratings, and extra cup holders. I would use our sleekest-looking vehicle driving down the street in the chicest of cities, and an unseen mystery narrator with a mesmerizing voice.

Then again, that's what all the car commercials are looking like these days. Maybe Ford™ just wanted to do something different? Humble themselves? Sheepishly admit their past flaws, and convince us those days are long gone? I don't know.

But I do know that I am more a Toyota™ fan now than ever before, because they are the company who doesn't make excuses. They don't acknowledge their flaws or failures, and that means I--as a modern-day consumer--don't know of any. In my mind, Toyotas™ are an ideal choice of a mid-range vehicle: affordable, attainable, reliable, safe, fuel-conscious, and now are produced locally.

Poor Ford™; someone should really tell them.

*Photos from acfk.net and 4driversonly.com.

{The Dreaded Inevitable}

**To Whom it May Concern:

Yes, my blog is (temporarily) white. No, I'm not racist--actually, it has come to my attention that on some computer monitors (ahem--PCs), my red blog with cream letters actually looks like a red blog with vaguely green letters and for some reason this makes it difficult to read. I, the proud owner of a Mac [thanks Mom and Dad!], hadn't realised that not all monitors are created equally. Rather than sending you all out to have your eyes checked (which can be costly, and in my opinion, a complete waste of time), I have decided to keep it black and white until I can figure out how to have the sidebars coloured. As in this blog. And this blog. And this blog. Ahh...my heroes.

Unfortunately I hate technology and it hates me back and I don't know how to do it yet, so you'll have to bear with my boring black and white blog for the time being, until I get a bit smarter (or pay someone to do it for me...any takers?).**

Now, let's talk about exercise. Growing up I was active enough. I climbed trees, participated in summer league softball (faithfully for 10 years), and jumped on the trampoline. I also fought viciously with my older sister, ran wild through the neighborhood, and took my high-spirited dog Sampson for walks while wearing rollerblades. Then in high school I played on the basketball, volleyball, track, and even marching band teams (during various years). I got my fair share of exercise.

So I don't know where I went wrong. Somewhere along the timeline of my life, I developed a loathing for strenuous activity that I can't seem to shake. Because it hurts to run. It's not nice; it's not natural--not to me. I've never understood the kind of people who say their "days don't go well if they don't get out there and run and blah blah blah." You know the type--exercise people. Me? Not so much. Any day of mine wherein I do not feel compelled to put myself through utter pain and misery...well, that's a pretty good day.

Nevertheless, I've put on weight (and lots of it) in the five months since I've been married, and I am just vain enough to dread going home to Arizona in May looking like this:


Moreover, I don't fancy the idea of buying new jeans just because my expanding thighs can no longer fit into the ones I've got.

So, after putting off the dreaded inevitable for...oh, three months or so...I finally ran out of excuses. I ran. Not far, mind you. But far enough to remind me why I hate it so. To make matters worse, there is a {seemingly} continuous wind blowing here in Mayberry, and every time I attempt to exercise in it, I contract a new case of The Whooping Cough. That's right--The Whooping Cough. I've been hacking and wheezing all day since my "workout," and all I did was exercise for 20 minutes (only five of which minutes were rigorous). But what can I do? I can't stop the wind from a-blowin', so I just have to toil on. Indeed, my plight is mournful.

It has given me some insight, though--I do understand why people in serious emotional turmoil might turn to running as an escape: when I'm running, I'm so intensely miserable each step I take, there is absolutely no room for any other kind of misery. Got depression? Go running--I promise you'll forget everything you once thought was bad in your life. Got a toothache? Go run somewhere--it'll be like your tooth never ached at all. Dog die? Throw on some tennis shoes and run your living daylights out--by the time you get back, you will be so consumed in your own unfortunate existence, you'll forget you ever even had a dog, let alone remember that it's dead.

That's how I feel about running.

You Mean I'm Not Perfect??

As old as I keep getting, I never really seem to learn anything.

Why do I spout off hurtful vendettas without thinking things through first? I don't know, really. There are two sides to every story (sometimes three or four, if you're CSI: Miami), but I am the tunnel vision kind of girl who only sees my own misfortunes. Quite the victim, aren't I?

Tunnel vision kind of girl. That's the point, really. I'm still quite a little girl. It's true--I don't feel like a grown up at all, most days. I go on and on about how disappointed I am in people--in the state of the world these days. Yet sometimes, when I step back and look at my own life, I realise I'm quite the biggest disappointment of all.

It's all very distressing. I mean, think of it: imagine if you lived your life all day every day, thinking you knew exactly what people are going through and what they should do to fix themselves, and the whole world has major problems, and people just need to get over it. Then imagine that one evening as you're flossing your teeth (which everyone ought to be doing), it is called to your attention that maybe--just maybe--you might have some issues of your own. Maybe you're a big jerk when all is said and done...maybe you're all talk. Maybe you're 21 years old and still acting like a child.

Maybe you're too harsh on the seemingly incompetent clerks at the homogenise-the-world chain stores who wear blue vests with yellow smiley-faced pins; maybe they have lives and hate their jobs and don't really care whether or not you can't find strike-anywhere matches (which are not by the barbecue supplies, just for the record). Maybe people with children aren't the enemy, and they aren't judging you for not wanting any of your own. Maybe old ladies at church don't think they're being crotchety at all, and Becca Flunt* truly did think you stole her graphing calculator. Maybe the sky isn't intentionally pouring down powdery white stuff just to get even with you.

Maybe all the mean comments "anonymous" makes on your blog is exactly right: Maybe "anonymous" is much more clever than yourself.

And think what a shock it is to the system--to go from so right to totally, undeniably wrong.

I don't know quite what to make of it, actually.

{Farce}

Something's going on between China and Tibet--I don't know what, exactly, but the Dalai Lama is involved, so I'm guessing it's big salami [do they have salami in Asia?].

Watching all of this political turbulence on the news (combined with the tumultuous and heart-wrenching music of The Beatles on American Idol) has moved me to the realisation of something very grave indeed:

I don't have a cause.

Oh, sure, I'm going green and all that, but really all I do is recycle, use fluorescent light bulbs and buy new appliances. I don't picket billion-dollar enterprises or attend conferences or raise my own free-range chickens. I don't take my own grocery bags to the market, buy organic anything, or store leftovers in glass containers.

In other words, I'm a farce.

I want to be passionate about something. Not anything annoying like timeshares or geneology (I hate getting accosted by timeshare people and genealogists), but...something. I want to wake up and hop out of bed ready to lobby--go to war, so to speak. I want to work hard and endlessly for a purpose, whether it be saving the seals and eels, liberalizing women of the third world, or protecting our rain forests. I need a cause.

Know what I crave? Upheaval. If I'd been born in the '60s or '70s, I'm sure I would have attended sit-ins, protests, marches and the like--I thrive on that kind of drama. I'd have likely been arrested...more than once. I wouldn't have done drugs, of course, but I would have surely acted high--high on the action.

The only problem is...there are so many problems--so many good causes. Which one is noblest? Which one is likely to be resolved? Onto which bandwagon can I hop?

And, most importantly...what will enrage me enough to keep up the motivation?

Freshman Year in Review: Timing and Perspective

I had good grades in high school. Good enough to land myself a full-ride [+ some] scholarship to Arizona State University. I had good grades there, too.

Until...

...I took CIS 180 (Computer Information Systems or some blather). It was basically an introduction to computers. I tried to work through it on a PC, even though it was written for both PCs and Macs, and I was raised Mac.

"PCs are taking over the world," I reasoned archaically, "so I might as well jump on the bandwagon." [I have since learned the errors of my ways. Tenfold. I will never again turn away from the glory that is Mac--at least as long as Steve Jobs is alive and out of federal penitentiary.]

But besides that, my life was nevertheless askew. I was going through a very...shall we say...defining time. In other words, I was totally out of it. My life, that is. I was dating a guy who I knew was all wrong for me. I should say, though, that despite my life in limbo, I still made some wonderful memories that semester. Like skydiving. And wing nights at Native New Yorker. And playing Make Me Laugh for hours on end.

But I digress.

I took a class learning on different computers than I was used to, during the stupidest time in my life. Needless to say, I failed CIS 180--failed so badly they didn't even give me an "F." I got an "E" for whatever "E" stood for [it slips my mind]. I lost my scholarship. Lost it, and lost it good. I was going to quit college altogether. I loathed ASU, I'd distanced myself from my parents, and I really needed to gain perspective.

Someday I'll delve deeper into the perspective I eventually found. For now, I want to show you what I did do in my CIS 180 class, (when I decided to show up) since I clearly was determined not to learn anything:


Inspired by the girl doodling next to me, I took it upon myself to fill in the entire back cover of my steno notebook completely...with tiny circles. You have no idea how long and tedious a process this actually is; in time, my quest morphed into something different...something much more profound. Instead of filling in the entire back cover, I let my eyes glaze over, my mind wander off, and my hand toil away. Class after class I drew tiny circles, and before long I'd created the form of a being--a being that has been a cause of deep introspection in years since.

My steno person took on a life of its own. Soon, I jotted down a few choice words to spice up the doodle: "laugh," "golf," "becaSUE." Whether because I heard those words during class lectures, I thought they would add meaning to my creation, or I just figured they would be fun to write, I cannot recall.

Some more details:




I gave my creature eyes, but no mouth--maybe it was my outward depiction of how I was taking a spectator's stance on my own life (i.e. observing, but never speaking my mind). Or maybe I just liked the squiggle the "h" served for said purpose.


Why did I spell "because" incorrectly? Did I secretly wish I'd been named "Sue?" Was it merely an oversight? Is it actually an anagram for something else? Some secret code I've since forgotten? I might never know.

Whatever the reason for it and its nuances, I've come to view this doodle as a sort of abstract version of myself--my unreserved, "let-it-all-hang-out" self. I have long since tossed away the accompanying notes from CIS 180 [what sparse notes I took]. That class meant nothing to me. But I cannot bring myself to discard this doodle.

What should I do with it?

*p.s. I retook CIS 180 few semesters later, and scored a 99%, receiving the highest grade on the final exam out of the entire class. It was all a matter of timing, I suppose. Timing and perspective.

{Disastrous}

I can't eat. [Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I can eat--I can always eat.] What I mean to say is, I can't enjoy what I eat. I am unable to relax. Food has lost its flavour; salt has lost its savour.

I can't sleep, either. [Okay, I can sleep. I can always sleep.] But my sleep is not peaceful and deep like usual. It is constantly being interrupted by nightmares and hideous hallucination-like episodes. I wake up in cold sweats. Not even the thick luxurious bedding of our Holiday Inn Suites in Great Falls, Montana can keep me sedated.

I'm in a bad way.


I've been married almost five months to the day, and I haven't written a single thank-you note. Not one.


I haven't even gotten them printed.

{MVD}

Sick of baby talk? That's understandable. I'll talk about something new today...

...Like the Motor Vehicle Division. The sole purpose of the Motor Vehicle Division is to remind God-fearing people here on Earth to behave themselves, or else they'll end up stuck there eternally in the afterlife. That's right. The Motor Vehicle Division is very akin to Hell. Hades. The Underworld. Pit of Eternal Damnation. The Catholic church should forget about Hail Marys--a real punishment for sins would be to send people to the Motor Vehicle Division, give them a numeric ticket, and rig the electronic board so that it never calls their number. And if they've done something really bad, like killed a man or fornicated, the Father could find an extremely fertile parishioner to drag all her children in to the waiting area and let them run amok. A retribution worse than death.

Since I moved out of the country and failed to have my address changed, I missed the cut-off for renewing my car's registration, which meant I could not send in a cheque, because it would take too long to receive my tags in the mail and thus inhibit my driving freedoms during my stay in Arizona. I was forced to submit myself to the horrible experience in person.

It had been a while since I'd visited the Motor Vehicle Division; I knew when I entered, the first step is to take a number, but I could not locate a ticket dispenser for love nor money (and I tried both). Finally I asked one of the less-crusty individuals who already had his ticket, "Hey, where'd you get that," motioning to his golden ticket. (Okay, it was white. But it may as well have been diamond, it was that valuable.)

He nodded his head in the general direction of a very long line, and I clarified, "I have to wait in line just to get a ticket to wait in line?"

He crinkled his eyes, smugly looking me up and down, and I could almost hear him thinking, "Hiya, toots...a nice girl like you doesn't belong in a place like this. Might as well turn around and git--you'll never make it."

Not to be deterred, I made my way towards the line for the unfortunate souls like me, twice nearly slipping to my death on wayward bouncy balls and chew toys. [No...chew toys are for dogs. What are those plastic water-filled squishy things that babies munch on when they're growing teeth? Teething rings? One of those.] I don't know why people don't get a sitter for their children when they have an appointment with the Motor Vehicle Division.

After 20 minutes of waiting in line for the line, and I was officially given a ticket allowing me to wait some more. K667 was my number. I found a seat in between Gold Velor Sweatsuit Man and Bubblicious Bubble Gum Smacking Woman. Bad choice. Only choice. D@#!mn. Looking up at the electronic board recording what number was being "served" ("sentenced" would be a more appropriate action word) at which counter, I was thrilled to see that we were on K666. I was up next! What luck! [The triple sixes should have tipped me off, but I was too naive to think that anything but K667 could come after K666.]

My heart raced as the numbers on the board changed and a robotic voice announced, "Now serving number..."

"Here we go," I thought, gathering my bag and car keys, "let's get this show on the road."

"A001."

"Nooooooooooooo.... They've started the sequence over again!" I mentally did some calculations and concluded that there were a lot of letters between A and K, and even more numbers between 001 and 667. D@#!mn.

As it turned out, and as is true with most demonic institutions, there was zero rhyme and zero reason to the numbers called. After A001 came B405 and 406 and then 410. Then on to the letter O and its accompanying 332 and 354. I started keeping track of the letters and numbers, thinking maybe there was a word of the day and the Motor Vehicle Division People have to guess what is being spelled out.

"Let's see...I came in on the letter 'K' and next it was 'A,' 'B,' and 'O.'"

"KABOB!!!" I exclaimed, jumping up and waving my ticket around like a maniac, my wild eyes looking for confetti or a giant balloon or any kind of prize. All I got were a few children jumping up and down with me, thinking it was some kind of something fun. The adults didn't even bat any of their eyes--lunatic behaviour is not uncommon at the Motor Vehicle Division.

When they finally did call K667, I walked shakily up to counter 8, where one of The Tempter's Demons informed me that I could not pay for my registration until my car passed Emissions--another hour's worth of waiting in line.

As I made my way out the door, dejectedly, the words of that less-crusty man echoed in my wasted head.

"You'll never make it...never make it...never...make it."

It's Who I Am...

I have a confession. It goes like this:

Yesterday I was on my way home from running a few errands by myself. I was driving through a neighborhood only a street away from my own, and I noticed a shiny black car/truck on the right hand side of the street, struggling to get out of a snow drift. (It was one of those new Chevy vehicles that can't decide if it wants to be a car or a truck. Like this:)


There was a middle-aged woman driving, and as I passed by, I watched her switch the vehicle from Drive into Reverse, spinning her wheels more and more into the snow each time. I slowed down and thought, "I should get out and help her."

...and then I kept on driving...

The strange thing was, I didn't really have a reason not to stop. It's not like I thought, "Well, I'm wearing nice shoes today," (which I was) or "She'll probably get it figured out," or "She doesn't really need my help." I didn't think any of those things. I just...didn't stop.

In the time it took me to get to the end of the poor lady's street and turn left onto my own street, I had become exceedingly wracked with guilt--I'm talking, really seriously wracked...

"Random acts of kindness are seldom convenient," I thought, and "She would probably appreciate the help."

"It's Christmas time," and "What would Jesus do?" and the story of that Darn Good Samaritan all flooded into my brain before I could say "Scrooge". I knew very well I was not raised to be the kind of person who keeps on driving. There have been so many times I've seen people parked at the side of the highway and I've said to Kyle, "Should we help them?" He usually replies with something like, "I'm sure they're fine...everyone has cell phones these days. Plus, there's not even anyone by the car! If they needed help, they would be flagging us down."

I've filled my brain so full of similar excuses as to why I shouldn't be a helpful person, that I don't even need those excuses anymore--I just...don't help people.

All this was spinning around in my head like a flurry of snowflakes, and by that time I'd passed my house and made the necessary two turns to get back to the Damsel in Distress. (It had only been maybe 30 seconds since my initial drive-by.) But by the time I got there, two other vehicles had already stopped. There were now four adults pushing from the back, but they'd made no progress. I was so anxious to make up for what I'd done 30 seconds before that I rolled through a stop sign so I could hurry and park my car. I jumped out and plowed through the snowdrift (in my good shoes) to make it to the back of that black vehicle--I really thought that if I could inch my way in among the other four people at that bumper, and offer a good hard push, then I could forget about how I'd not stopped in the first place.

I was a few steps away--maybe three or four--when the good people pushing her truck gave one final heave and loosed her from the clutches of the ice and slush. I stood there, defeated, and as she drove away, she waved out the window, saying, "Thank you all so much! I really appreciate your help!"

But she wasn't talking to me...

I am not saying that it's Kyle's fault I didn't stop--he wasn't even there! He is a good person--a hard worker--and if he really saw a true need, he would do anything he could to help someone in despair. The fault is completely my own, and since yesterday afternoon, I have put a lot of thought into why I didn't stop that first time around. I still don't know the reason, but I can guarantee one thing: I will never again let myself be talked out of offering to help when I see a need for it. Because really, what's the harm in offering to help someone who might not need it? What would they say? "No thanks, I'm fine." Well, I can handle that. I can tolerate making a slight spectacle of myself if there is the potential of good to come of it.

I'm sure it sounds a bit cheesy, or deep, or like I'm "waxing too poetic," but this is what I've decided...and it's going to become part of what makes me me. Laugh if you want, but...

...I don't think I'll ever forget how it felt to stand there and know that woman wasn't talking to me.