On Buying a Car

Most of the time, I'm able to make rational, intelligent decisions quickly and with complete confidence. On occasion though, such as with last night, I encounter a situation with choices in which there are no clear winners, or with a high potentiality of significant negative consequences. In these cases, I'd rather eat steel wool than go through the decision-making process. Considering how easily I seem to work my stomach into balloon-animal-grade twists, it'd probably be easier on my digestive system anyway.

In short, I needed a car. I've been putting off shopping for one for a while now, avoiding it like a trip to the dentist for a root canal. While I've never purchased a car before, I think I instinctively knew that it would be a horrible, anxiety-filled process. Unfortunately, I had to take those instincts and shove them deep down into the basement, because the car I had been borrowing from my brother-in-law had engine trouble, giving me the final kick in the butt to correct what was supposed to have been a temporary solution in the first place. Carting home 13 bags of groceries on a bus just doesn't work. Meeting a date at the bus stop is similarly awkward.

Things went fairly well. Sedan, 4 door, and manual transmission were the qualifications I started with. I test drove a few cars but didn't really find what I was looking for. The closest I found was a very slightly used 2010 Ford Focus, but it didn't have cruise control. I thanked the guy and moved on to another dealership. I should have made that the end of my interactions with that particular salesman, but I figured that if I didn't find anything else I liked I'd go back, buy the Focus, and slap in cruise control sometime in the future.

The problem really began when I started looking into a 2007 Honda Civic Si. I talked with a salesman and his manager, and it was looking like they weren't going to come down far enough on the price to make it economically viable. “We” sent it back to financing, just to see what the numbers would look like.

It took an hour. I'm glad I brought a book and my smartphone, or I would have been bored out of my mind. After 30 minutes of nothing, I started thinking that things weren't going to work out. I began to imagine that right then, across town, someone else was headed towards that Focus. They were going to buy it out from under me while I was stuck at Honda. I would have to keep looking for a car, and at that point I did not want to hit yet another lot.

I called the Ford guy, mentioning that I might stop by about the car so that maybe he'd kind of hold it for me, and that was my first mistake. Not twenty minutes later, they came out of the finance department with the price I had in my head.

Crap.

At that point, filled with some trepidation and the knowledge that I would eventually have to call Ford Guy (you know, to be polite), I nevertheless went ahead and through the mentally draining task of filling out the ridiculous mountains of paperwork involved with financing a car and reading the endless amounts of fine print until my eyes felt like they were stuffed with sand and maybe a porcupine or two.

Afterward, I walked to a nearby mall (my car wasn't quite ready to actually drive off the lot) to grab a really late lunch. Along the way I called Ford Guy, to inform him that I wasn't, in fact, planning to stop by anymore. The call took longer than it should have, and I made my second mistake. I should've told him I bought the other car, but no. That, my stupid brain demanded, would be like I went behind his back, cheating on him with another salesman. I don't know why I felt like I owed him anything, but I went with qualifying terms like “think” and “maybe” without coming right out and saying I signed papers.

Basically, I tripped that little competitive switch that I suppose inhabits the brains of all car salesmen, because an hour later I got a call from him.

Ford Guy: “I've got great news!”

Me: “Okay...”

Ford Guy: “What if I could get you a brand new Focus for the same price as the used one you drove?”

Me: “Uh...” o_o;;

Ford Guy: “And this one has cruise control.”

Me: “You...have this on the lot?”

Ford Guy: “Well, no. I talked to my manager, saying that I guessed we didn't have anything as sporty as an Si, but I checked the warehouse, and we have a manual Focus with all the extras. So, when do you want to stop by?”

Me: ::sigh:: “I guess I'll...take a look.”

See, even though I had signed the papers, I was waiting on my co-signer (I have no credit, period. Not bad credit, no credit), and Utah has laws about having 24 hours to back out, so I had wiggle room. I shouldn't have taken it. I should've avoided it like a rabid syphilitic monkey. But I can't. I have this need to please other people and to have them think well of me, or at least not hate me. As much as I wanted to, my neurosis wouldn't let me turn down the offer.

Which is how I ended up at Ford, listening as Ford Guy and Ford Guy's Manager listed off all the reasons I should buy their car, and going back to their finance department to see what rates and payments they could give me. It's also how I went home with massive indigestion and heart burn, wracked by indecision and the soul-crushing fear that whatever choice I made would be the wrong one. I had visions of getting behind the wheel, driving a few miles, and breaking down in a fit of hysterical crying.

I spent all night feeling like I had eaten bad fish tacos chased by super-spicy Thai. Both were highly rated cars. Both had about the same cost of ownership. Both were great deals. How was I supposed to decide?

What it came down to was this: The Honda is the radical choice. It's fun, but not practical like the Ford. The Ford is the conservative choice. It's a practical, college-student-appropriate vehicle. I'm tired of being conservative. There are so many times in my life where I have an impulse or an idea, but I'm too afraid to follow through. I worry what other people will think. I analyze and over-analyze the moment until it passes me by. Part of me wants to take chances and risks, but the practical side of me keeps roping and hog-tying radical me to the ground. It's time I stop feeding practical me, at least enough to weaken it so radical me can escape every now and then, and this car is a symbol of that desire to change.

I'm still worried, but at the same time it's already working. Part of what helped me to actually work up the courage to knock on Roommate's door was the knowledge that the Honda Civic was in my parking space. It was like, “Listen, buddy, did you buy me so that you would start doing this kind of stuff, or did you buy me so you could keep being a scared little pansy?” As soon as I had that thought, I was out of my room and knocking on his door.

Stick that in your tailpipe, Focus.

On Roommate Boundaries and Social Obligations

Usually, unless I myself am making noise with the TV or some music, my apartment is almost dead quiet. I have an apartment mate, but 99% of the time he is so quiet in his room that I don't even know he's there until he comes out to use the bathroom or grab a snack or whatever.

So when out of no where there's this huge crash just outside my door, I nearly jumped out of my chair. I have a bead curtain that I've carted around from place to place for the past ten years. Given how much it rattled against my door, and the shear spike in decibels, I assumed that a string had broke or something.

When I went over to investigate, I couldn't open my door. It wasn't locked, but the knob refused to turn. In what I'm sure was primarily a state of sleep-deprived confusion (I haven't been getting much quality sleep lately) I stared at the knob in an uncomprehending stupor for a few seconds before twisting and untwisting the lock. It was still somewhat stuck, but I managed to open the door.

On the other side was my roommate, on the floor, nearly tangled in my bead curtain like it had attacked him and thrown him to the ground.

Me: O_o;?? "...are you okay?"

Roommate: "Yeah, uh...I have allergies. I must've fell."

Me: "...oh...kay..."

At this point he rose shakily to his feet, reminiscent of a new-born colt standing for the first time.

Me: "Are you sure you're okay?"

Roommate: "Yeah. Fine. I think I should sleep."

Me: "Maybe you should."

Now, what I think he meant to say was that he was on some kind of super-strength allergy medication. From all outward appearances, he looked drunk. I don't know what he took, but it must've been like the Rambo/Terminator/Robocop/Son of Sam/"BLAAARG HISTAMINE! I WILL OWN YOU!" variety of allergy medication, because I've never seen anyone react like that.

I'm actually somewhat worried that maybe he hit his head and got a concussion, because he didn't move until I opened the door. I spent quite a bit of time responding to the beaded cacophony, and staring at my door knob on strike in an uncomprehending stupor too. Of course, being me, I'm not sure if I should go try to wake him up and see if he's okay or not, so I'm debating doing anything. This leaves the situation with, in my head, only two outcomes.

1. He's fine, other than being doped up on Claritin, and fast asleep. I'll go bang on the door like an angry landlord until he answers, alive enough but pissed that I woke him up. Yay me.
2. He's suffering from a moderate head injury, and won't come to the door. I kick it in, check his vitals, rush him to the hospital, and save his life. I'm a hero. Yay me!

Granted, the awesome that is the hero potentiality is much farther up the positive scale than him being pissed at me is on the negative scale (like, +1,000,000 vs –maybe 100-375), but the fact that there is a possible negative outcome at all is keeping me in my seat. Especially given that this happened over an hour ago. It's like: "It didn't occur to you that I might be dying until just now? Thanks. Thanks a lot. ...jerk."

It doesn't help that I barely know him. Over the course of the year that we've lived in this apartment, I'm pretty sure that we've said less than 1,000 words to each other, total. I know maybe 7 distinct facts about him. It's an effectively, albeit functionally, neutral relationship, thus I have absolutely no basis by which I could determine what he'd want me to do in this situation. If it wasn't for the fact that I'm his apartment mate and therefore somewhat obligated to do something if he were dying, I wouldn't be in a dilemma. Mostly, I think it's just that I'd feel utterly horrible if he was dead tomorrow, and I didn't do a thing about it.

But there's still that possibility that he's (mostly) fine, right? It could've just been the medication, and not necessarily a concussion, that made him wobble like a lush. That stuff messes you up.

Roommate's alive! And not pissed at me! He seemed fine. Groggy and tired yes, but not concussed and in need of a drama-filled heroic rush to the ER. I'm glad I manned-up and knocked. That kind of stuff can make me nervous and indecisive to the point of paralysis. The fact that I kept at it through the churning acid is proof of personal progress.

Yay me!

On Beginning

So...I started a blog. Mostly, I've been following one particular person, Allie, who has an amazing blog which you should absolutely check out. And follow. And tell your friends about. Basically, while I have been thinking about starting one for some time, reading her posts gave me the final impetus to actually do it, and anyone capable of getting me off my lazy butt and actually doing something I've been thinking about doing for a long time is, quite simply, an amazing human being.

I kinda wish I knew how annoying this whole process was going to be, though. Really, I should have known. Nothing I ever undertake to do ends up being as simple and straightforward as I imagine it should be.

First off, I had to come up with a title. I wanted “Ham Sandwich.” Why I wanted it is a tangential story about a friend's opinions on blogs and blogging in general. Why I couldn't have it is simple. Go ahead, type in http://hamsandwich.blogspot.com. Really, Blogger? Really? Shouldn't some auto-pruning feature have kicked in like, five years ago, and deleted that garbage?

I mean, if I had tried it out and it linked to some super-amazing blog (or even just a halfway decent one) updated on even a monthly basis, I wouldn't be upset. I'm getting into the blogging game late, so it's understandable why my first choice isn't available. I would've graciously accepted defeat. But to lose to that? The incoherent gibbering of what I can only imagine is a syphilitic monkey banging on the keyboard and somehow submitting it eight years ago is what kept me from having my URL of choice? Fail. Epic fail, in fact.

Unfortunately, my URL woes didn't stop there, because soon after I arrived at creating a profile. At the bottom it says this “To make it easier for people to find your profile, you can customize your URL with your Google email username. (Note this can make your Google email address publicly discoverable.) This unique name will also be used in other links to your content on Google. To help others discover your profile, in some Google services contacts who know your email address will see a link to your profile.”

Displayed beneath is a single radio button with a URL that makes it so easy to extrapolate my email account that even that blog-title-stealing, VD-ridden monkey could be spamming my inbox in moments. My only other option? An incomprehensible string of numbers that would be impossible to memorize and therefore essentially useless. Why can't I pick my own, Google? Why won't you give me a text-input field instead of this ridiculous Catch-22? Would it really break you that much to give me that option? This is why I dislike Google, and feel it is so much hype. Don't even get me started on their Brutus-style attack on net neutrality.

Okay, so I ended up making a whole new email account, which was probably overdue anyway. Then came the arduous task of transferring my blog over to that new account. You'd think this would be an easy process. You're wrong. There is no way to change the username associated with the account. I had to add the new account as an author, grant full admin access, and delete the old account. This, after a half hour of pouring through the site and finally searching help files. It shouldn't take more than two clicks and 30 seconds to do want I wanted to do with it, and it was all just so that, when people hunt down my Google profile through this thing, it leads them to a reasonable URL rather than an incomprehensible string of random numbers. I still can't change my Adsense credentials. I hate you, Google.

Anyway, I suppose I should actually get on with why I had been sitting on the idea of blogging in the first place. There are a lot of reasons, and various things I hope to get out of this process, but basically it comes down to me wanting to eventually publish something as a writer. This doesn't count, but to be a good writer, you have to write. A lot. And the more you write, the more you are able to develop your style. If people like your style, they'll turn your stuff into a book. Lately, I've been struggling with a crippling lack of motivation to write, and I'm hoping this helps cure it.

It's not really the fame or the fortune aspect of it all (although those certainly won't hurt) but that I like the idea of having fans, and I'm suddenly too impatient to do something legit to get them. I follow a lot of web comics, and I might be getting into following more blogs too, and, well, it's nice to have that kind of validation from a large group of people.

I plan to make this blog more about me than anything else. Sometimes it'll be funny (at least I hope), but it'll also be sad, and weird, and insightful, and religious (I'm a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. AKA, Mormon. Some days I just won't be able to not post something overtly from this perspective. I won't hold it against you if you stop reading right now. Promise), and filled with fortune-cookie-style observations on life. It may be a rant, or a memory, or a “this is what's going on in my life.” Half-journal, half-memoir, half-desperate plea for attention and recognition. In essence, like 94.7% of all the blogs out there. Hopefully, I bring something to the table that other people don't, at least enough to make my inane drivel worth reading to someone out there besides my mother (and perhaps my sister, too).

To all my future readers, I make some promises:

1. Whatever I write will be real, legit, and, to the best of my recollection, truthful.
2. I will strive to use proper spelling and grammar in every post, except in such cases where "proper" grammar is stupid.
3. I will never straight-up use vulgarity. Ever. I don't in person and I won't here. The worst it may get would be along the lines of “freak” and “heck.” My current favorite seems to be dagnabit. Admit it, it sounds funny, too funny to be offensive. I won't be getting excessively crude either.
4. I will, most likely, not update every day, but I will strive to put something up here at least once a week.
5. Even though I may post something about Christ, or the LDS faith, I'm not doing this to proselytize, nor am I out to convert anyone (although I certainly wouldn't be upset if someone got curious about it because of my blog, and I'm always open to legit questions about my faith). If the Jesus posts bug you, don't leave. Just skip them until you find something funny and/or entertaining.

That's all for now. This thing has gotten long enough, and if I don't post it I'll just keep adding to it, rather than make a new entry.

I hope you stick around, and that you're able to pull something worthwhile or meaningful from what spews out of my head in the future.