Squirrel Thoughts

I know all (six) of you who read this blog have been waiting with bated breath for me to follow up on my car alarm situation, so I apologize for the delay. But I have great news!

Monday morning, I took my car to Aspen Sound in Missoula. They open at 9, but I got there a few minutes early, so I had to wait in my car, anticipating the embarrassment I knew was coming. I could see the employees arriving and going in the store, and I’m sure I looked suspicious from the get-go, since I was just sitting there, like a creeper.

Haha, get it?

So, 9 o’clock rolled around, and I managed to get out of my car rather calmly, considering all the aforementioned hullabaloo it took to complete this simple task. Cars on Broadway whipped by, but not before I could spot the puzzled looks on the drivers’ faces.

When I walked into the store, I double-checked that they install car alarms as well as stereos.

“We sure do.”

“How about dis-installing them? Do you do that too?”

“Yeah, it sounds like that’s what you really need, huh?”

“Wow, how’d you guess…”

(At the time, I sounded much more witty and charming than it seems here. Trust me.)

I explained the situation (and found out that the alarm actually came with the car. I’z get confused somestimez), then I handed over the key.

“Well, we’ll see what we can do.” This did not sound promising.

I left the good ol’ Jetta with them and caught the next bus to my office. When I came back after 5, I was pleasantly surprised to find that they were able to disengage the alarm. Yay! No more looking like a spaz when I get out of the car! (Well, maybe I shouldn’t go that far…)

The problem isn’t completely solved — all the doors still lock when I turn the car on — but the damn alarm doesn’t activate anymore. And, the guy who worked on it switched the broken manual lock on the driver’s side door with one from the back — I can actually pull it up now! (So if you’re ever in the back of my car and we get in a fiery crash and you can’t get out because of the broken lock — bummer.)

Anyway, the moral of this story is, in essence: Don’t trust Germans. Ever. (Sorry, Germans.)

My neighbors and I are getting pretty tired of this car alarm that keeps going off on our street. They’re tired of it because it’s loud and obnoxious and seems to go off at random intervals throughout the day. I’m tired because it’s coming from my car.

My neighbors are probably writing a similar note at this very moment.

Before I explain further, you should probably learn a little background on the car: I (OK, my parents) bought it used about five years ago, and whoever had it before installed an alarm, so I don’t have a key chain alarm thingy  or manual or anything for it. It usually just turns on when I lock the car from the outside. It’s caused me a few problems over the years, but it’s never been a huge issue. Until now.

For some reason, when I got in my car and turned it on yesterday, all the doors locked and the alarm activated.When this happens, there’s only one way out, because if the the alarm is activated, I can’t unlock the doors by pressing the buttons. At this point, getting out of the car involves a) freaking out, because I’m locked in this damn car with no way out, followed by b) pulling up the manual lock, which sets off the alarm. I then have to get out of the car and turn the key in the driver’s side door, since that’s the only way I know how to turn it off.

Now, this wouldn’t be overly obnoxious if I could just get out of the driver’s side door and turn it off. But I can’t. The top of the manual lock on that door broke off, so I can’t pull it up when it’s locked. So I have to lunge across the the passenger side, pull up the lock — which triggers the alarm and a full-swivel panic in me — push open the door, jump out, try not to eat shit on the ice, avoid making eye contact with the neighbors, who have gathered on their porches to give me the death glare for the gazillionth time that day, scurry across to the driver’s side door and turn the key in the slot to make it stop.

To better illustrate this, I had Zach record a video of me in action.

Now, anyone who’s had the privilege of hearing me complain about it lately knows I’ve had several issues with this car, and I’m getting tired of throwing money at it. But as  you can see, this is a problem. I usually take the bus to work, so I’m not completely dependent on it, but it’s really just embarrassing to go anywhere in a car whose only exit strategy is that.

Since I don’t have a manual for it and know nothing about cars, I’m going to take it to a place that installs stereos and alarms tomorrow, and hopefully they will take a look at it and figure out how to disable the damn thing. If my neighbors don’t destroy it first, that is.

When it comes to putting metal in the microwave, I don’t have a good track record. Though the chemistry of it is fairly cut and dried (do not put ANY amount of metal in the microwave for ANY amount of time. EVER.), I struggle with the concept. Embarrassing, I know.

What would happen if I came to your house and put something in your microwave.

Now, before you write me off as a complete idiot, you should know that many newer microwaves that Real Adults have come with metal racks on which to place food. My parents happen to have one of these, and it just confuses the hell out of my subconscious. While that really doesn’t justify the following stories, it’s still important to know.

The first time I nearly blew the house up, I was preparing a snack of crackers and those little wedges of Laughing Cow cheese. I’d just pulled the cheese out of the fridge, so it wasn’t easily spreading. I decided I could probably stick one of the wedges in the microwave, just for a few seconds, and it would be fine. Half a second later, it started to spark and flame. Instead of instantly solving the problem by pulling the microwave door open, I freaked out. Once I started jumping and waving my hands up and down while screaming “OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD!” Zach calmly waltzed over and opened it, extinguishing the blaze.

“Um, you know you can’t put metal in the microwave, right?”

“Well, I didn’t think it would start on fire right away. I thought you could put a little bit in for a couple seconds and it would be OK.”

“No. Do not put ANY amount of metal in the microwave for ANY amount of time. EVER.”

Now, I’ve done a pretty good job of following this simple rule since that terrifying experience. Until this morning.

I had just finished making some delicious whole-wheat chocolate chip pancakes, and I decided I wanted to put some peanut butter on them. We had a little bit of organic peanut butter left, but it wouldn’t really spread because I had used up all the oils that had separated. “I’ll just pop it into the microwave for a few seconds to soften it up,” I thought.

Unbeknownst to me, hiding discreetly along the rim of the plastic jar was a tiny bit of foil, leftover from when I first opened it. So, when I put it in the microwave, it started to spark, as it is chemically inclined to do. I started freaking out, complete with the aforementioned jumping and screaming, but this time I at least mustered the courage to open the door myself.

Rustled from his slumber by all the racket, Zach came out of our bedroom and asked what I was doing. I explained that I’d ignited a minor fire, but everything was OK now.

“Did you put metal in the microwave again?”

“Um, well, I put the peanut butter jar in the microwave, and it started to spark. I didn’t realize there was metal on it. There was just a bit of foil leftover. I didn’t knowingly do it this time.”

“OK, but while we’re on the subject…”

“I know, I know.”

“Do not put ANY amount of metal in the microwave for ANY amount of time. EVER.”

We’ll see if it sticks for good this time.

The other day, Zach uttered the 10 words any self-respecting girlfriend fears most.

“I think I’m going to become a ‘Battlestar Gallactica’ guy.”

My mind started to race. “Oh God, did he really just say that? Am I dreaming? Is this just an awful, awful nightmare? Will I wake up any minute, with my only somewhat geeky boyfriend sound asleep beside me?”

When I realized that I was, unfortunately, wide awake, my heart began pounding so hard I thought my chest might explode.  In between my ragged breaths, I noticed the room spinning. I may have even blacked out for a moment; it was too chaotic to tell. “Is this what my life has come to?!?”

All hyperbole aside, this story is basically true. Zach has crossed the threshold from part-time nerd (Ooh, look, a Wookie!)  to full-blown geekazoid (Hey guysh, wanna check out my Cylon bobblehead collection? Hey guysh, where ya goin’? Guysh?). And all it took was three hours (read: eternity) of crap like this invading our television.

I would consider some sort of rehab program, but, alas, “Battlestar Galactica” is a lot like meth — you try it once, and suddenly things like personal hygeine and the outside world no longer matter. (Plus, my research indicates no such program exists. Yet.)

I can’t count how many times over the past few days Zach has gushed about Edward James Olmos and how he couldn’t wait for the next disc of ‘BG’ to arrive via NetFlix. I think I even heard him whispering to himself in robot binary code the other day. I’m starting to fear I’ll never again get to watch any of the completely normal movies or shows I enjoy, like “Alvin and the Chipmunks: The Squeakquel,” on our TV. At least not for another four seasons.

Though my situation is hopeless, I feel I can still help others on the verge of being afflicted by this terrible, terrible condition. Ladies, if your significant other even mentions the words ‘battlestar’ or ‘galactica,’ run. Save yourself before it’s too late. Seriously, just get the frak out of there. You can thank me later.

What the hell does that even mean??

For Christmas, Zach’s mom wanted a “nice” photo of us for her to frame. So we decided to employ the photographic stylings of a J-school classmate, the uber-talented Shane McMillan, to get the job done.

Now, neither of us is very photogenic, and Zach has an issue with smiling for photos, so I knew it was going to be tough for Shane to get some good shots, though it seemed like he took about a thousand. Still, there was no way of foreseeing the extreme awkwardness that would follow. Seriously, we could have won the Awkward Engagement Photos Contest on awkwardfamilyphotos.com. (Though these are NOT engagement photos. I repeat, THESE ARE NOT ENGAGEMENT PHOTOS.)

So, without further delay, here are the most awkward of the awk:

A) Hey Zach, is that your best Blue Steel, or are you dropping Magnum on us?

Shane McMillan photos

2) This one probably  explains why my friends used to (somewhat lovingly, I think) refer to me as “Tool” Squires. As in “Your parents should have named you Tool. That’s right, Tool. Tool Squires.”

D) And if this image doesn’t inspire romance and passion in couples around the world, I don’t know what will:

Yes, I have kissed a boy before, though this this pic would suggest otherwise. I mean, that’s seriously what I look like going in for a kiss?!? Zach at least looks like he knows what he’s doing and that he might actually enjoy it; I look like I’ll be lucky to even find his mouth. If I ever have some uncontrollable urge to commit me some unsightly PDA, this image burning in my memory will surely squelch it.

Despite what these selections suggest, we didn’t look completely awk in all the photos. We had quite a few quality shots to choose from; this one turned out to be the fan favorite:

(FYI — Zach and I have nearly a dozen fans, so that’s really saying something.)

Both the fams loved their photo gifts, and we’ll hopefully never have to go through that again. After all, I’m awkward enough as it is, damnit.