To begin with a terribly clichéd opening statement, the Oxford English Dictionary defines “ordeal” in the following way:

2. Anything which acts as a test, or severely tests character or endurance. Hence more generally: a painful, trying, or unhappy experience, esp. a protracted one.

This, I think, is a fair definition. But to truly understand this word, one should also look at its original definition:

1. Law. A practice of trial in which an accused person is subjected to a test, usually involving physical pain or danger, overcoming of which is taken as divine proof of innocence (freq. in ordeal by fire, etc.); (also) the right or prerogative of jurisdiction in a trial of this kind, together with the fees and profits thence accruing.

Yikes. Now we’re getting somewhere.

Now, you may be wondering why I am so interested in the definition of ordeal. Well, if we look at the first definition I mentioned, we see that, generally, an ordeal is a trying or unhappy experience. This, I feel, is close if not interchangeable with a “tale of woe.” But, I have other reasons for dedicating this entry to ordeal. I would personally like to extend the general definition of ordeal into a more specific context.

I think that anything that takes over five hours to complete should be automatically considered an ordeal. A plane trip, a car ride, an operation. Anything five hours or more = ordeal.

Furthermore, anything that normally takes a modest amount of time (certainly less than five hours) that, for some reason, takes a longer amount of time. To use a personal example, once I took my car to the car wash. This automated car wash usually only took five minutes of my time, but one day the car washer’s rollers stopped working in media res, and I was left sitting in my sudsy car for longer than the normal five minutes. In fact, it wasn’t until much later that day that I finally had a clean and dry car. Thus, an ordeal.

Finally, I think that the following should also be considered ordeals: trips to the DMV, trips to the dentist, delays at the airport, and the changing of tires. One caveat, however: if any of these things takes an inordinately short amount of time, it may not be considered an ordeal. For example: Once I went to the dentist and my appointment was cancelled. Why? Because my dental hygentist informed me that she had lost vision in her right eye. Ordeal averted!

So, in closing, ordeals no matter what the definition, usually suck. Please feel free to add any of your own definitions in the comments.

The new phone book is here! The new phone book is here!

All references to The Jerk aside, this blog can now be found via a Google search. Just go to google.com and type in “mikes tales of woe” or something like that, and you can be directed to this blog.

In other news, it’s raining freezing rain here in Pennsylvania. Lovely woeful weather, I must say.

Just a quick tale of semi-woe for today. Actually, this is a good example of the kind of thing that happens to me often.

Flying to Pennsylvania, I first flew out of Burbank and landed in Phoenix. Everything was going as planned. There were no lines in Burbank, I made it through security with no problems, and my flight departed on schedule. In Phoenix, I decided to give my dad a call, who would be picking me up at my final destination in Baltimore.

“How’s the weather there?” he asked.
“Fine. Perfect,” I said. “Everything is on time, and I should be in Baltimore on schedule.”
“That’s good,” my dad said. “So, the only thing that could cause any delays would be a mechanical problem.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“But that never happens,” he said.

I got off the phone. Ten minutes later, an announcement came on over the loudspeaker. My plane, which I was supposed to board in minutes, was delayed. Why? Mechanical problems.

Aside from having issues with my car’s tires, I have general car woes as well. When I first moved out here, my radiator blew on my way home, and I was stranded in Whittier for a day. Another time, I had some belts changed at Jiffy Lube, and no sooner had I driven a few blocks away from the service center than the belts snapped off and my engine ceased to run. I had to rent a car for a day after that incident. Then, about a year ago, my battery died on my lunch break, and I was an hour and a half late getting back to work.

Now, my car woes continue. As I had mentioned a few days ago, my check engine light came on. I hoped for the best, but, as always, expected the worst. Once in the past when my check engine came on, I only had to replace the spark plugs. I was not so lucky yesterday.

I pulled into the dealership and a service adviser approached me and my car.

“You here about the noise?” he asked.
“Noise?” I replied. I knew then I was in for it. “No,” I said, “I’m here because the check engine light came on.”

After my car was looked over by a repairman, I had another conversation with the service adviser. He told me I needed my idle control valve replaced, as this was causing the check engine light to come on. Fortunately, and miraculously, the valve was still covered under warranty despite my car being over eleven years old. That was the good news.

The bad news: I needed new brake pads on the front and back and needed the front brake rotors resurfaced. I also needed all of my hoses replaced. Yes, all of them.

Overall, this little adventure cost me about 1/3rd of my car’s total value and took over six hours of work. Good grief.

Just a few months ago, I was walking with some friends out of a Mexican restaurant in my neighborhood. Suddenly, a white sedan drove by with a young man in the passenger seat. The passenger had his window down and was leaning out of the car. The young man yelled, “F**k you!” then threw something at us with much velocity. Fortunately, whatever he threw miraculously managed to sail in between all three of us, and the car continued down the road. Then I looked around and saw the tell-tale trail of goo along the sidewalk. He had thrown an egg.

I really need to move to a new neighborhood.

I was driving home today when my check engine light came on. My engine did not explode, nor did it conk out in the middle of the freeway, but this does not bode well.

I’m beginning to hate my car.

This really isn’t a tale of woe, but it certainly is strange…

I was on the freeway, driving to a nearby library to do some schoolwork. I was in the right hand lane and got stuck behind an old, slow-moving Mazda 626. I only had about half a mile to drive before my exit, so I patiently stayed behind the slow moving car. Then the slow car slowed even more, slamming on its brakes and even veering slightly to the right. Still, I remained behind the car, as my exit was approaching. Finally, the exit came. The slow car took the same exit, but I managed to pass it, as the exit ramp had two lanes. I passed the car to the left, and as I passed, I saw, seated in the driver’s seat, a middle-aged woman who was holding a disposable camera and taking a picture of me.

I was and still am thoroughly perplexed.

So, like I said, my troubles with tires were only just beginning…

As a result of the first tire incident, I had both my front tires replaced. This held me over for a few months until one bright afternoon, as I was driving to the pharmacy in Burbank, I heard the tell-tale thump thump thump of a flat. I pulled into the pharmacy parking lot and realized one of my back tires was now flat. Fortunately, it was the afternoon and I had plenty of space to operate, so I changed the tire myself. It took me a while to do so, but I would become much speedier at changing tires over the ensuing months.

As a result of the most recent flat, I bought two new back tires. But they didn’t last long. I had them about a year before the first one blew on my way home from Pasadena one night. It was dark and drizzling, and I had to change the tire on the side of the road with virtually no light. I soon bought yet another new tire, this time only a single one.

The next back tire blew a few months later on my way back from San Jose. I was hundreds of miles outside of North Hollywood, so I had to buy a new tire that day, less I drive all the way home on the risky doughnut. I had to wait over an hour for the tire to be replaced.

I thought my tire troubles were over, having literally replaced every tire at least once. Yet one day not too long ago, my boss came up to me at work and broke the news.

“Mike,” she said, “I just got back from lunch, and when I pulled into my parking spot, I noticed that your front tire looks low.”

It was low, sure enough, and had a giant silver nail in it to boot. Of course I assumed the nail hole could be plugged for a nominal sum, but, alas, that was not to be. Turns out the tire was damaged beyond repair, and yet again, I had to buy a new tire for my car.

So it goes.