It's a Minuscule World

• Is it just me, or do other people find themselves saying, "wow, it's a small world" ALL THE TIME? I think I find reason to utter this phrase at least twice a week...and that's without even trying to find a reason. It seems like every one is connected somehow. It sometimes feels like I can find some random connection to every person I meet, which makes me wonder if the world was ever really that big to begin with. Here are a few examples I've had of this:
  
• I joined a book club last winter with about 15 women (only two of whom I knew previously). All in a matter of two hours at our first meeting, I had determined that one woman's husband(who just moved here from Oregon) is the cousin of my best friend from pre-school. I find out that another girl drives the exact same car as me, only after I find out that she actually lives in my same condo building. There have been numerous times that I have confused the other black Saab 9-3 with my own and actually tried to get in it a couple of times.
  
• A few weeks ago, over dinner, I find out that my date's family owns a bowling alley in Iowa. Growing up in a bowling alley myself, I've never met anyone else who actually had the job of spraying bowling shoes with Lysol or got the keys to the candy machine because his parents owned the place. I mention this weird coincidence to my best friend, who informs me that her husband, in fact, bowled at this SAME 8 lane bowling alley in rural Iowa for seven years before they moved to Minneapolis! "Yeah, he got to know the owner so well, we almost invited him and his wife to our wedding!" she tells me. Small world. I then go to a party with this date to his good friends' condo downtown (expecting to know no one). As it turns out, I was practically greeted at the door like Cheers greets Norm. "Ashley!" A guy who I knew when I was about 16 gives me a hug, hands me a beer, and introduces me to his fiance, who I played softball with and took dance classes with when I was younger. I then look at my beer mug engraved with two last names and quickly realize that the couple throwing the party (who I hadn't even been introduced to yet) were Skipper sweethearts who graduated a year ahead of me. Small world.
  
• I met a woman at a networking event in Plymouth a month or so ago. After speaking with her for a few minutes, we discover she lives in the building across the street from me and realize our balonies actually face one another. I find out what company she works for...a large company with many offices in the Twin Cities. I throw out the name of THE ONLY person I know who works for this company. "Yeah, he's my best friend! We are going salsa dancing together tonight."
  
• A few months ago, I developed a small (very small) crush on a guy who I had met once. I made the mistake of telling this to my mom and an even bigger mistake by telling her his name. (What was I thinking?) I proceed to get an email from my mom a week later while she is in London telling me that some woman who she is traveling with knows this guy's family. Apparently, her son went to college with him. Small world? Or maybe just a fine example of my mom talking about my business too much. How was that connection made anyway?
  
• When I was in college at University of Iowa, I remember going to visit someone in Grand Forks, ND for a weekend. While I was there, I was introduced to some guy originally from Illinois. "I know someone who goes to University of Iowa. I dated her in high school," he tells me. Okay, well it's a school of 28,000 student, I think to myself, so I doubt I know who she is. Go ahead pal, give it a shot. He tells me her name and my jaw drops. "Yeah, I know her. She's only my ROOMMATE!" Small world.
  
• One semester in college, I lived with 3 very good friends of mine. All of them were from Illinois, but in different parts of the state. After winter break, one of them came back to school with a videotape of a dance camp she had been to when she was about 15. We couldn't figure out why she was making us watch some video of a group of girls doing an unorganized dance without costumes. She paused the tape when it came to one part of the dance and pointed out the girl next to her. There, LINKED arms next to her in a kickline is our other roommate. Apparently they had crossed paths (or in this case, arms) before at a summer camp they both attended. Neither one would have remembered this if there weren't physical proof of their encounter.
  
• Five years ago, while in Campina Grande, Brazil, visiting an old exchange student my family had, I meet an American who is there as an exchange student. She is staying with the neighbors of the family I am there visiting. "You're from America! What state?" I ask her, excited to be speaking English with a fellow American.
  
  "Minnesota!" she says.
  
  "No way! What city?"
  
  "Oh, I'm from a town southwest of Minneapolis called Chaska," she tells me.
  
  Unbelievable. Small world. Literally in this case. I was in Brazil!

I seriously could go on and on with examples like these. Do you have them too? Think of how many other "small world" connections we can probably make if we just have these conversations with every single person we meet. Some you might have to dig deeper than others, but there's gotta be something there. Screw Kevin Bacon, I think there has got to be six degrees of seperation from just about every one in the world. Okay, at least in Minneapolis.

Piggy Paper

I went over to my parent’s house the other day to look for some gold pleather pants from college so that I can wear them on a date tomorrow. But that’s a story for another post. While I was looking for these pants, I came across several boxes of keepsake items ranging from first grade art work to college papers. One paper I came across that struck a memory was one that I wrote first semester in my freshman year of college for a Rhetoric class.

I remembered the assignment was to write about something that we were once ignorant about but came to be wise about after an event or as we got older. I took the topic quite literally and wrote about the first thing that came to my head: Piggies.

Piggies, you ask? Yes, one of my first college papers was about flatulence and how I was raised in a house where we were told to not to say “fart” or “pass gas”, but call this release of air a “piggy.” The thing was, I didn’t know that not all people didn’t commonly refer to this as “piggy” until I was older and started using this word in front of my friends. For instance, “Katie, did your dog make a piggy?” It was always used as a noun instead of a verb. So, I was ignorant about the fact this was a word used solely in the H*g*m*n household and I wised up when I tried using it out on the “streets”…or, in this case, my friend's basement.

I read through this paper and got to the end with the professor’s comments, which said:

Ashley- Although your topic seems quite unexceptional, your story is well-told and nicely illustrated, such that one can visualize your family. You write well, and I’m glad to see you know how to use dialogue to bring the event to life! I especially like your tone; there is a light, humorous quality to it. Perhaps now you could work on the significance some more, and what the experience of learning “piggy” really means for you.

Would you mind reading the part I marked to the class?—RW

I mean, maybe it wasn’t the best topic of choice, but really, how significant can I make this experience? I remember getting this paper handed back to me in class and going, “he wants me to read this out loud?” I read the part he had marked, using the words piggy, fart, and toot all in the same sentence in front of my new classmates. He wanted me to illustrate my use of dialogue in the paper to the class. When I finished reading, there was no response from the class. Just pure silence…not even a chuckle. What happened to the good 'ol potty humor high school kids had? Another kid in the class was asked to read a piece of his paper too. He wrote about a nearly fatal car accident he had when he was 15 and how he was in a coma for five months. When he came out he had to relearn everything…people, memories, how to tie his shoes. His topic was how he had taken life for granted before this accident and how this event gave him a whole new perspective on life. Again, mine was on how I learned that the rest of the world doesn’t call farts-“piggies” and how that was an embarrassing moment for me. I like to think that I have matured since then. Perhaps I have had a few more life experiences that have made more of an impact on me than the day I found out about piggies. Kind of ironic isn’t it? I must have been pretty ignorant then if that was my topic.

Car Trouble

Tomorrow I bring my car in for the THIRD time in two weeks to have the brakes checked. They were squeaking…so I brought them in and got them replaced. They squeaked again…so I brought them in and had them reconditioned. They squeaked AGAIN! At some point, I have to wonder “are these car mechanics trying to screw me over?” Just stop the squeaking! That’s all I ask!

I learned my lesson in dealing with car mechanics at an early age. In high school, I always had my dad with me when I had to bring the car in. He knew the auto body shop guys well, so I knew they would take good car of him…and thus, me. But, when I went to college in Iowa City, I didn’t have the same luxury.

I bought my very first car, a red soft-top Geo Tracker, after my sophomore year of college. When I went back to school that fall, I knew there were some repairs that needed to be made. I told Dad what was wrong with the car over the phone and he coached me in what to say to the mechanics when I brought the car in. Basically I needed two new tires, my air-conditioner was broken, and my 4-wheel drive wasn’t working correctly.

I marched myself right into the auto shop, feeling assertive and fully knowledgeable about what was needed for my car. I wanted to tell them exactly what I needed so they wouldn’t tack on a bunch of extras things like, “Oh, you also need a thingamagiggy for your zoomawhagot or else your car might explode.” (Kind of how, every time I go in for an oil change they manage to pull some nasty-ass thing out of the hood of my car and tell me I need it replaced because it might make me sick. “It’s only $20 to replace,” they say. Okay, whatever. $20 so I don’t get sick. Fine, replace it.)

So, I said to the mechanic in Iowa City, “I need two new front tires, and my air-conditioning isn’t working and needs some Freon. Also, will you check to see why my 4-wheel drive isn’t working and call me before you do any work to repair it? That’s all I need done. Thank.”

The next day, I got a call from the shop. “Your vehicle is ready, Ashley. We got the new tires on for you.”

“Great!” I say, “And did you also get the Freon for the air conditioner and check the 4-wheel drive?”

Long pause.

“Well, actually, we didn’t put in Freon because you don’t actually HAVE an air conditioner in your vehicle. And the 4-wheel drive is fine. You just have to lock your hub caps. There’s a little switch on them that activates your 4-wheel drive.”

Gulp. How was I supposed to know the blue part of the temperature control wasn’t the air conditioning, but rather the “cool” part of the heat?

“Okay. Thank you. I’ll be in to pick it up.”

After that episode, I kind of gave up trying to get too technical explaining what is wrong with my car. Now, I merely describe the noises my car makes and don’t bother trying to figure out what needs to get done.

So, my conversation with the mechanic this morning went like this…

“Hi, Dave. Remember me, Ashley. You rode around the block in my Saab last week so you could hear the squeaking in my brakes. Remember you heard it and said it was my front brakes? (I don’t wait for his response) So, I left my car with you AGAIN to fix it. Well, they are still squeaking. And I drive clients around in my car for my profession, and when my brakes CONTINUE to SQUEAK at every stoplight…AFTER I’ve had them “fixed”, it is reflecting poorly on you, because I am going to start telling them who is doing the work on my car unless you get rid of this noise. I’m dropping my car off tomorrow and I don’t know what you have to do…I just need you to make the squeaking STOP!!”

I probably sounded much sweeter than what I am portraying…but it sounded pretty cool, huh? Too snobby? Well, you know what they say: Saabs are for snobs! Hopefully it should get the job done. Lesson learned: I should’ve gone to Midas.

A Goose to my Maverick

The best part about being single is having a girlfriend who can do spontaneous things with you. Or who is always up for going with you to meet a cute boy and his friends, or go out with, or talk with you as you obsess about things like, "Do you think he'll call?" "Should I call him?" A friend of mine coined this term best about a year ago when I was supposed to go meet someone and his friends and was feeling a bit intimidated going by myself. So my single-at-the-time friend, said, "I'll be your wingman and go with you." Awesome! A wingman! My partner in crime. Soon after, I become "not single". Now, I am single, and she is "coupled", so I had to find myself a new wingman. And who better than my old college roommate, Laura. Aka. Goose

It was about six or seven years ago that Goose and I would go out together in college. We'd always introduce ourselves as Sky (me) and Veronica (her). We'd run home from downtown Iowa City at 2am, picking up stick in the yard signs and go hang out on the porch swing of random people's houses. So, I want to give a shout out to my wingman for participating in what felt like a college relapse weekend. Thanks for taking some of the weight off of my sisters' shoulders, who are probably starting to dread see me sign into Instant Messenger because they know I am going to say something like, "Want to talk about boys?" Thanks for being game for going to a "kegger" with me and thanks for spontaneously driving to the horse races with me to meet our new friends. Thanks for being my Goose. Or, you can be Maverick if you want. Either one.