While you're booking your flight and consulting Wikipedia to study up on Minnesota lore, I have a story to tell you.
Remember a while back, when I decided that my trusty decade-old Saturn was perhaps self-healing and invincible? (No? You don't actually memorize every word I type? Fine then; here's a link.) Well, it turns out that the
One night last week my touchy-feely coworker flagged me down on my way out of the parking lot. I thought perhaps he wanted a quick hug before I left, but no, he just wanted to let me know that my right headlight was out. The last time this happened, I did what most
Figuring out how to free the light bulb from the plastic casing around it, however, requires a well-lit garage or discretionary daylight hours, neither of which I had at the moment. I put the project off until the weekend.
The next night, though, I was waiting at an intersection, and I noticed not one, but two, headlights reflected from my car onto the uncharacteristically clean and shiny (for Minnesota in road-spray season) SUV in front of me. Hurrah! My headlight was magically fixed! The Saturn IS self-healing! Brilliant! So confident was I in my car's mystical powers that when a friend inadvertently tapped my bumper and broke loose my front license plate frame on Saturday, I thought, "Eh. No worries. I'll just leave it in the front seat and surely it will reattach itself on its own when I'm not looking."
Unfortunately, it is now four days later and the license plate is still sitting forlorn in the same spot I left it. Also, waiting behind another shiny car on my way home last night, I realized I was back to one headlight again. Drat.
I tried to decide what I'd done since the light went out, reappeared, and went out again, and I formed a theory that was actually slightly more scientific than "Magic!" Last week, when I thought the light was burned out, I opened the hood to investigate how to get at it. The next day, the light was back on. Yesterday, I filled my wiper fluid when I stopped for gas. Later that night, the light was gone. I decided the force of the hood shutting must somehow be tripping the light, so I tested the theory to see. Open hood, slam shut. The light flipped on instantly. Open hood, slam shut. Darkness once again. Not wanting to walk back around to the driver's side door to release the hood another time, I gave the headlight a firm but gentle pound with the side of my fist. Happily, that worked, too.
I'm convinced now, of course, that my fist can solve any number of mechanical problems. I'm a protege of the Arthur Fonzarelli School of Auto Repair and Maintenance. Now if only I could apply this same skill to the license plate dilemma.