Last Friday we finally heard back from the venue coordinator, and she confirmed that the 18th was, indeed, open. So we took it.
Yeah, I’m not a fan of the number 18 (apologies to my pal with a birthday on the 18th), but you know what? It works better. It works better for some of our people.
So. September 18, 2010.
09.18.10.
My brigadier tried to cheer me up by pointing out that, well, 9×2 = 18. And that 1+8 = 9. And that 9+1 = 10. Mathematics be damned, 18 is still an even number.
1984: Maybe it was some Orwellian thing.
On Sunday I was talking with my dad on the phone about the whole date thing. “You gals sure seem to have a thing about numbers,” he observed. “I couldn’t care less what day anything happens on.” Truth, but then in almost the same breath he admitted he has a superstition about even-numbered car model years. He maintained that all the cars he’s owned that were manufactured in even years were piles of junk, the most egregious offender being a 1984 Ford Tempo. God, I remember that car. If this car had a theme song, it would be Arcade Fire’s “No Cars Go.” Nothing could make it go, at least not very far. It spent a great deal of time parked under the carport in front of our apartment building. My dad spent countless weekends sweating under the hood of that evil red chariot, cursing mightily.
Everything I learned about dealing with inanimate objects, I learned from my dad during this period of time. Here is how it works. You struggle repeatedly with an object, and when after the umpteenth time it still does not work, you get mad and throw it across the room, and/or use it to hit something. This will undoubtedly inflict personal injury and sometimes cause the object to break, at which time you shout a lot of bad words. This pretty much the system I use to this day.
Weddings! Yes. That is the topic of this blog, it turns out. We were talking about a wedding date. My wedding date. My wedding has a date! Whoa.
I may not be incredibly enthusiastic about the number, but it boils down to this: who cares? It is just a day. I can get behind the 18th. It’s the day I’m getting married; why wouldn’t I be excited? I would even be excited if it was the 13th, which is another number my dad went on to cite his apprehension of. Right, and I thought it was only chicks who cared about what numbers mean.
And now, No Cars Go. Except for yours, of course. And mine. But I drive a 1993, so I think I’m all good.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=83KR_UBWdPI]
perhaps you can pass on to your dad that is was less likely the even year that made the tempo suck, and more likely the fact that it was a tempo. my mom’s 1987 tempo (grey) gave many mechanics (including my uncle) many headaches. there was the temperature gauge that wouldn’t work, no matter how many times it was replaced or recalibrated, and thus causing the car to overheat on any hill that was even mildly steep. there was the alternator belt that had to be replaced something like 3 times. there was the ac unit (the clutch and coil assembly, and why do i still know that?) that was already broken when we bought the car (1991).
no car go, indeed.
hey! i learned the same method of dealing with inanimate objects from my dad!
OMG! excitement!