Ah, Christmas. It's the magical time of year when everyone's brain turns to mush. I like to call this phenomenon the "Christmas Brain."
Do you remember that old movie with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan? No, no. Not "You've Got Mail." The other one. Yeah...wait, no. Not "Sleepless in Seattle." I mean the OTHER one. "Joe VS. the Volcano." Yeah. That one. You don't remember it? Okay, well never mind then. I mean, the movie is awesome, although completely impossible to understand. But Tom Hanks' character (Joe) is diagnosed with an imaginary "disease" known as a "Brain Cloud." I am of the opinion that a "Brain Cloud," if it were in fact a real disease, would be a lot like the "Christmas Brain." Only Christmas Brain only takes place during the holidays, and the Christmas Brain isn't usually fatal...and also, no one has to jump into a volcano, although sometimes the Christmas Brain makes you want to do crazy, crazy things.
Christmas Brain is the reason why every single December, I trick myself into believing that I can successfully make 1000 cake truffles/chocolate covered pretzels/pieces of biscotti, etc. etc. in a single evening. After realizing that I can't make all that stuff and still keep my sanity, I choose to forfeit my sanity. This loss of sanity leads to an even greater case of Christmas Brain, which leads to all sorts of what I like to call Christmas Fails.
For instance, the preschool where I work is a Christian preschool. We're not allowed to discuss Santa Claus or any of the secular aspects of Christmas, and I completely agree with and support this rule. There's nothing wrong with flying reindeer, but a Christian preschool isn't the place for it. Anyway, the last day of preschool before the Christmas break, one of the other teachers brought in "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" for the kids to watch. I remember filtering the situation through my brain, as I often do when confronted with a situation that might be against the rules. I thought, "Rudolph. Flying Reindeer. Nothing against the rules there. It's Rudolph! Of course we're allowed to watch that." Now, if my brain were normal, and not a Christmas Brain, I would have come to a different conclusion. I would have thought, "Rudolph. Flying Reindeer. AND Santa Claus. We can't watch this here. Let's watch VeggieTales." Fortunately, the preschool director caught us just in time and made us turn it off--all the while looking at us like we were crazy. I think we all had the Christmas Brain...which led to an epic Christmas Fail.
I've noticed the Christmas Brain/Christmas Fails in a lot of people, but I think Walmart workers have it pretty bad. It's not their fault, bless them. Long hours, cranky customers, busy, busy, busy. It's easy to get upset with retail workers, but I think it's just a lot more fun to just laugh at them and move on. And when I'm laughing at them, I'm really laughing with them, because I've got the Christmas Brain, too.
I had one Walmart employee try to help me out by directing me to a "20 Items or Less Line." I figured she was telling me that one of the lines was open, so I left my spot in a reasonably short line and went to the checkout she indicated. Only the line she directed me to was significantly longer than the line I left. And by the time I realized the problem with her "help," I'd lost my place in the shorter line. So I stood there, laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation. Otherwise, I might have been crying.
Speaking of crying, the Christmas Brain leads to a complete loss of emotional control during the holidays. I found myself in Target the other day, staring at the Christmas decorations on sale, and I started crying because I just love Christmas so much, and Christmas was almost over, and I just love Christmas so much, and I'm not ready for it to be over...and I just love Christmas so much. And I had a serious case of the Christmas Brain.
The great thing about the Christmas Brain is that it continues even after Christmas. I went into Walmart a few days after Christmas, trying to get a soda and some money on my gas card, so I could drive a few hundred miles from KY to NC. I instructed the lady to put $25 on my card, and handed her the soda so I could also pay for that...or so I thought. She scanned my card in order to put the $25 on it...or so I thought. She handed me my soda, my gift card, and a receipt, and I hadn't paid for anything...or so I thought.
It took me a few seconds to realize that she had used my gift card (which already had a few dollars on it) to pay for my soda. I said, "No, I wanted $25 put on my gift card." She looked at me for a few seconds, then smiled and said, "You know what we can do? We can put $25 on your card." Um....
I said, "Yes, that's what I'm asking you to do." She looked at me another few seconds, then said, "I know. I'll just put $25 on your card." I was tempted to grab my card out of her flustered fingers and run to another cash register with an employee who wasn't suffering as strongly from the Christmas Brain, but I decided to give her one more chance. She put the money on my card, handed me my soda, and said, "There. Now you have your $25 on your card, and you also have your soda," as if this were news to me or something. I just nodded, smiled, and made sure she gave me the proper receipts, just in case she still wasn't sure about the transaction that had just taken place.
It's things like the Christmas Brain that make me almost glad that this time only comes once a year. ...but then there's always the Valentine's Day Brain, the Easter Brain, the Halloween Brain, and the "I Just Feel Like Going Crazy for No Apparent Reason" Brain. All of them help make life more interesting.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Sunday, December 11, 2011
An Awkward Twelve Days of Christmas
On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: A partridge in a pear tree.
Hmm. Okay, sweetheart. Thanks for the shrubbery. I do like pears. But...what's with the partridge? Is it supposed to be a pet, because I don't really like birds. They're messy...and I have to feed them. What do partridges eat anyway? I hope they eat pears, because otherwise this one is going to starve to death.
On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Two turtle doves.
Baby, I told you I don't like birds, but maybe I can make an exception for this new mutant half-breed. TURTLE doves? Are those like some kind of awesome birds that live down in the sewer, make friends with giant rats, love pizza, and practice ninja moves, all the while sporting colorful eye bandannas?
No?
Do they at least have shells? No? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?
On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Three French Hens.
Enough with the birds! And do they have to be French? I mean, I like what the French do with fries, but French style green beans are not cool. The French should leave my green beans alone. They should stay up on their castle walls, insult the Brittons, and throw cows at people.
Can I throw your three French hens back at you? Run away!
On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Four Calling Birds.
Birds. Again. Really? Really. You're like the least creative true love in the world. I guess that serves me right for dating a guy who works in an aviary. But what am I supposed to do with these FOUR calling birds? I mean, if they're going to be making calls all the time, I'm going to have to get some kind of family plan with my mobile carrier just to accommodate them. Sure, I can feed the partridge the pears, but I doubt my calling birds are going to settle for anything less than an unlimited calling/texting/data plan. Then again, how do they text with their little birdie feet? Maybe I can just convince them to use the banana phone.
On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Five Gold Rings.
Ah! Now we're getting somewhere. I mean, at least you're not giving me birds anymore. To be honest, though, my love, I was kind of hoping that at least one of those five gold rings had a diamond attached to it, but apparently my true love is a commitment-phobe. And you like birds. A lot. Yep, you're a keeper. Well, I don't really wear a lot of rings, so I guess I'll be calling those cash-for-gold people so I can get some money towards bird seed.
On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Six Geese A-Laying.
Dude. We were making great progress here, and then you go back to birds. What in the world am I supposed to do with six geese? And these six geese are a-laying. A-freakin-laying. That means little baby geese, because I'm not really sure I want to eat a goose egg. Maybe I'll throw it at you along with the French hens.
On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Seven Swans A-Swimming.
Darling. Dear heart. Love of my life. Does it look like I have a swimming pool at my apartment, or were you expecting me to keep seven a-swimming swans in my bathtub? Do you know how much of a mess seven swans a-swimming would make in my bathtub? Do you think my neighbors want to hear the sounds of seven swans a-swimming in my bathtub? Stop buying me birds.
On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Eight Maids A-Milking:
Okay, so granted, I am a bit of a slob, but it's kind of a slap in the face to say that I need EIGHT maids. And what exactly are they supposed to be milking? All you've given me up to now is a bunch of scrap gold, a pear tree, and a plethora of useless birds. I mean, unless these turtle doves are some kind of wonderful mutant birds that have developed mammary glands, I'm pretty sure you can't milk a bird. If you're going to buy me milking maids, you should probably at least be considerate enough to buy me a cow or a goat or something that can actually be milked. But you know what, I really don't want a goat in my bathtub either.
On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Nine Ladies Dancing.
You know, you can keep them, because I'm pretty sure that you're going to need a new true love (or nine of them) in the near future...
On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Ten Lords A-Leaping.
Leaping Lords! Just what I always wanted! Why are they leaping? Nobody knows! But maybe one of them is smart enough to realize that plants, birds, slave girls, and commitment-lacking cheap jewelry are not good gifts to give your true love...
On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Eleven Pipers Piping.
I'm confused. Are they here to play annoyingly high music, smoke 'baccy, or are they here to fix the plumbing? If they're here for the plumbing, I'm not sure why there are so many of them...
...but then my bathtub did get pretty clogged with all the a-swimming swan feathers.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Twelve Drummers Drumming.
No, thanks! I just roasted up the three French hens, so I have plenty of drumsticks.
This is why I'm single.
Merry Christmas!
Hmm. Okay, sweetheart. Thanks for the shrubbery. I do like pears. But...what's with the partridge? Is it supposed to be a pet, because I don't really like birds. They're messy...and I have to feed them. What do partridges eat anyway? I hope they eat pears, because otherwise this one is going to starve to death.
On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Two turtle doves.
Baby, I told you I don't like birds, but maybe I can make an exception for this new mutant half-breed. TURTLE doves? Are those like some kind of awesome birds that live down in the sewer, make friends with giant rats, love pizza, and practice ninja moves, all the while sporting colorful eye bandannas?
No?
Do they at least have shells? No? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?
On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Three French Hens.
Enough with the birds! And do they have to be French? I mean, I like what the French do with fries, but French style green beans are not cool. The French should leave my green beans alone. They should stay up on their castle walls, insult the Brittons, and throw cows at people.
Can I throw your three French hens back at you? Run away!
On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Four Calling Birds.
Birds. Again. Really? Really. You're like the least creative true love in the world. I guess that serves me right for dating a guy who works in an aviary. But what am I supposed to do with these FOUR calling birds? I mean, if they're going to be making calls all the time, I'm going to have to get some kind of family plan with my mobile carrier just to accommodate them. Sure, I can feed the partridge the pears, but I doubt my calling birds are going to settle for anything less than an unlimited calling/texting/data plan. Then again, how do they text with their little birdie feet? Maybe I can just convince them to use the banana phone.
On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Five Gold Rings.
Ah! Now we're getting somewhere. I mean, at least you're not giving me birds anymore. To be honest, though, my love, I was kind of hoping that at least one of those five gold rings had a diamond attached to it, but apparently my true love is a commitment-phobe. And you like birds. A lot. Yep, you're a keeper. Well, I don't really wear a lot of rings, so I guess I'll be calling those cash-for-gold people so I can get some money towards bird seed.
On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Six Geese A-Laying.
Dude. We were making great progress here, and then you go back to birds. What in the world am I supposed to do with six geese? And these six geese are a-laying. A-freakin-laying. That means little baby geese, because I'm not really sure I want to eat a goose egg. Maybe I'll throw it at you along with the French hens.
On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Seven Swans A-Swimming.
Darling. Dear heart. Love of my life. Does it look like I have a swimming pool at my apartment, or were you expecting me to keep seven a-swimming swans in my bathtub? Do you know how much of a mess seven swans a-swimming would make in my bathtub? Do you think my neighbors want to hear the sounds of seven swans a-swimming in my bathtub? Stop buying me birds.
On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Eight Maids A-Milking:
Okay, so granted, I am a bit of a slob, but it's kind of a slap in the face to say that I need EIGHT maids. And what exactly are they supposed to be milking? All you've given me up to now is a bunch of scrap gold, a pear tree, and a plethora of useless birds. I mean, unless these turtle doves are some kind of wonderful mutant birds that have developed mammary glands, I'm pretty sure you can't milk a bird. If you're going to buy me milking maids, you should probably at least be considerate enough to buy me a cow or a goat or something that can actually be milked. But you know what, I really don't want a goat in my bathtub either.
On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Nine Ladies Dancing.
You know, you can keep them, because I'm pretty sure that you're going to need a new true love (or nine of them) in the near future...
On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Ten Lords A-Leaping.
Leaping Lords! Just what I always wanted! Why are they leaping? Nobody knows! But maybe one of them is smart enough to realize that plants, birds, slave girls, and commitment-lacking cheap jewelry are not good gifts to give your true love...
On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Eleven Pipers Piping.
I'm confused. Are they here to play annoyingly high music, smoke 'baccy, or are they here to fix the plumbing? If they're here for the plumbing, I'm not sure why there are so many of them...
...but then my bathtub did get pretty clogged with all the a-swimming swan feathers.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Twelve Drummers Drumming.
No, thanks! I just roasted up the three French hens, so I have plenty of drumsticks.
This is why I'm single.
Merry Christmas!
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
SAA Ep. #56: Airing of Christmas Grievances
Wow, so I'm a poopy head (sorry, I work with kids) for not blogging as much as usual. My schedule is insane what with Thanksgiving and Christmas and all of that. To be honest, with everything going on, I really haven't had much time to have awkward moments about which to blog. Instead of having adventures, I've been plopped down on the couch watching seasons of Psych from Netflix, whilst knitting fuzzy scarves. And unless I unknowingly cater to an audience that considers adventures in knitting to be exciting, I really don't think that would be good blogging material.
So yeah. Christmas is coming, and if you know me, I love Christmas. I love just about everything about Christmas. I love Christmas music. I love Christmas lights. I love Christmas movies. I love Christmas food. I love the crazy people that shop at Christmas time. I love it all.
And if you're one of those people who thinks that it's too soon for a Christmas blog, let me tell you that I've beenimpatiently waiting for months. Months, I tell you. If I had my way, people would start putting up lights and listening to Christmas music in September. They wouldn't take down the lights or stop listening to Christmas music until March. And every summer, there would be a solid month of Christmas in July celebrations. What? You say that Christmas in July would interfere with the Fourth of July? Why can't we have a combination Christmas/Fourth of July parade? Why can't we have Christmas in July fireworks? "Yankee Doodle Dandy" isn't nearly as awesome as "Joy to the World." But yeah, I guess the rest of the world doesn't love Christmas as much as I do.
So I wait. I wait until the rest of the world says it's okay to celebrate Christmas. I don't care if you think this Christmas blog is early; it's after Thanksgiving, so it's considered acceptable. I've waited long enough, and nobody's gonna tell me I can't celebrate CHRISTMAS as much as I want to!
But even an amazing season like Christmas has a few problems. I don't like the cold, but you know, I don't mind it at Christmastime. It's the months of winter that follow Christmas that make me want to crawl into a hole and hibernate until spring.
So is there anything that I really just don't like about Christmas? Yes. Yes, there are actually two things I don't like about Christmas, and they're related. One of them isn't so bad if it's done well, but the other one just makes me mad.
The first grievance I have about Christmas are those silly "White Elephant Dirty SantaYankee Swap" games. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, I'm talking about that game where everyone brings a wrapped gift to a party and everyone draws a number. Then the person with the first number chooses a gift and unwraps it. The person with the next number gets to either unwrap another gift or steal the gift from the person whose already opened one. Then the person who had their gift stolen has to open another gift (or steal from another player). And people go around unwrapping gifts and stealing them from one another until the last gift is unwrapped.
Some people find this game a lot of fun, but I just think it's annoying. I think the point of the game is to have fun, but I don't think it's fun to steal. I also don't think it's fun to have things stolen from me. I've done these games several times, and I've seldom enjoyed them. There are a few exceptions--like the time I had the last number, so I just went ahead and opened the last present so the blasted game could be over--and I ended up with this:
And I have to say that I actually had a lot of fun playing this game at my preschool teachers' Christmas party last year. I think the reason that I liked it so much was because everyone knew what they were bringing (and what they were getting). Last year, everyone was supposed to bring a coffee mug, so no matter what, you knew you were also going home with a coffee mug. Except one person misunderstood and brought a pair of aloe-infused socks. You'd better believe everyone tried to steal those! This year, everyone is actually supposed to bring socks, but I'm sure at least one person will be going home with a coffee mug.
I'd like to say that having everyone bring the same gift to a "White Elephant" exchange is a really great idea, but I remember one time when the English honor society at my college (Sigma Tau Delta--STD! It's Contagious!) had a Christmas party and everyone was supposed to bring a book. I brought a classic--Hunchback of Notre Dame. And then I got my hands on a wonderful book of Emily Dickinson poetry. Well, when the game was over, someone shouted, "Now everyone can steal whatever they want!" (which is so NOT an official rule--in fact, it's cheating!), and one of the professors stole my Emily Dickinson poetry book and left me with one of those books that gives you Bible verses for specific subject matters that you can buy in dollar stores. So, yeah, totally bad experience with the book thing. So, I guess what I'm saying is, "White Elephant" gift exchanges work great as long as everyone brings the same thing, and as long as people play by the rules, and as long as one of the people playing isn't a jerky professor who steals my Emily Dickinson poetry book (go buy your own copy with your teacher's discount and leave me alone!!!).
Now, the other thing I hate about Christmas is that atrocity known as "Secret Santa" (or "Secret Sisters" or whatever). *Shudder* I guess some people get a kick out of these things, but they actually make me pretty cranky. I always figure out whose giving me gifts, and the person I'm giving gifts to always figures out it's me. So by the end of it, we're all just telling each other, "Hey, *wink wink hint hint* why don't you get me one of those, 'Secret' Santa." And even if I don't figure out who my person is, I still don't really enjoy it. We get a list of things that our person likes and doesn't like, but it's not a whole lot to go on, especially when there's a set price limit. So I always feel guilty when I have to get lame stuff for my person. And then there's always the people who go WAY overboard and over budget on their gifts. And so, someone always leaves with a huge stash of awesome stuff, making everyone else say, "I wish I had HER Secret Santa. All my lame Secret Santa got me was a pair of aloe-infused socks."
But you know, I guess that's okay, because you can always bring the socks to the next "White Elephant" game.
So yeah. Christmas is coming, and if you know me, I love Christmas. I love just about everything about Christmas. I love Christmas music. I love Christmas lights. I love Christmas movies. I love Christmas food. I love the crazy people that shop at Christmas time. I love it all.
And if you're one of those people who thinks that it's too soon for a Christmas blog, let me tell you that I've been
So I wait. I wait until the rest of the world says it's okay to celebrate Christmas. I don't care if you think this Christmas blog is early; it's after Thanksgiving, so it's considered acceptable. I've waited long enough, and nobody's gonna tell me I can't celebrate CHRISTMAS as much as I want to!
But even an amazing season like Christmas has a few problems. I don't like the cold, but you know, I don't mind it at Christmastime. It's the months of winter that follow Christmas that make me want to crawl into a hole and hibernate until spring.
So is there anything that I really just don't like about Christmas? Yes. Yes, there are actually two things I don't like about Christmas, and they're related. One of them isn't so bad if it's done well, but the other one just makes me mad.
The first grievance I have about Christmas are those silly "White Elephant Dirty SantaYankee Swap" games. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, I'm talking about that game where everyone brings a wrapped gift to a party and everyone draws a number. Then the person with the first number chooses a gift and unwraps it. The person with the next number gets to either unwrap another gift or steal the gift from the person whose already opened one. Then the person who had their gift stolen has to open another gift (or steal from another player). And people go around unwrapping gifts and stealing them from one another until the last gift is unwrapped.
Some people find this game a lot of fun, but I just think it's annoying. I think the point of the game is to have fun, but I don't think it's fun to steal. I also don't think it's fun to have things stolen from me. I've done these games several times, and I've seldom enjoyed them. There are a few exceptions--like the time I had the last number, so I just went ahead and opened the last present so the blasted game could be over--and I ended up with this:
 |
| ...a blue disembodied hand...just what I always wanted... |
I'd like to say that having everyone bring the same gift to a "White Elephant" exchange is a really great idea, but I remember one time when the English honor society at my college (Sigma Tau Delta--STD! It's Contagious!) had a Christmas party and everyone was supposed to bring a book. I brought a classic--Hunchback of Notre Dame. And then I got my hands on a wonderful book of Emily Dickinson poetry. Well, when the game was over, someone shouted, "Now everyone can steal whatever they want!" (which is so NOT an official rule--in fact, it's cheating!), and one of the professors stole my Emily Dickinson poetry book and left me with one of those books that gives you Bible verses for specific subject matters that you can buy in dollar stores. So, yeah, totally bad experience with the book thing. So, I guess what I'm saying is, "White Elephant" gift exchanges work great as long as everyone brings the same thing, and as long as people play by the rules, and as long as one of the people playing isn't a jerky professor who steals my Emily Dickinson poetry book (go buy your own copy with your teacher's discount and leave me alone!!!).
Now, the other thing I hate about Christmas is that atrocity known as "Secret Santa" (or "Secret Sisters" or whatever). *Shudder* I guess some people get a kick out of these things, but they actually make me pretty cranky. I always figure out whose giving me gifts, and the person I'm giving gifts to always figures out it's me. So by the end of it, we're all just telling each other, "Hey, *wink wink hint hint* why don't you get me one of those, 'Secret' Santa." And even if I don't figure out who my person is, I still don't really enjoy it. We get a list of things that our person likes and doesn't like, but it's not a whole lot to go on, especially when there's a set price limit. So I always feel guilty when I have to get lame stuff for my person. And then there's always the people who go WAY overboard and over budget on their gifts. And so, someone always leaves with a huge stash of awesome stuff, making everyone else say, "I wish I had HER Secret Santa. All my lame Secret Santa got me was a pair of aloe-infused socks."
But you know, I guess that's okay, because you can always bring the socks to the next "White Elephant" game.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Social Awkwardness 101
It's the 101st Socially Awkward Adventure! To celebrate, I'mma post 101 ways to create, inspire, and spread awkwardness. Oh, joy!
1. Send yourself flowers and sign your coworker's name to the card. Loudly thank your coworker, making a huge production out of it.
2. When someone speaks over the loudspeaker at the grocery store, fall down, cover your ears and scream, "NOT THE VOICES AGAIN!!!"
3. Walk up to a stranger, sniff his shoulder, turn, and walk away.
4. Laugh. Maniacally. For no apparent reason.
5. Put cilantro in everything. Everything.
6. Tell someone you want to tell them a knock knock joke. Then ask them to start it.
7. While in public, loudly sing the incorrect lyrics to Elton John songs (ie. "hold me closer, Tony Danza" or "She's got electric boobs! Her mom does, too! You know I read about Charlie Sheen!").
8. Stare at people.
9. Smile at people.
10. Stare and smile at people.
11. Ask your blind date if s/he's ever let anyone else pick his/her nose.
12. Do this (it helps if you're a girl).
13. Eat onions and go breathe on people. Tell them they have bad breath.
14. Talk on the "banana phone" in public.
15. Ask for something in a different accent every time your waiter asks if he/she can get you anything.
16. Use the phrase "That's what she said!" when it makes no sense to use it. (i.e. "I went to the grocery last night." "THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!")
17. Wait till you're on an elevator with a complete stranger, then press the emergency stop button. After the elevator comes to a complete stop, inform the stranger that you are currently wearing new socks.
18. Go to donate blood dressed as Count Dracula.
19. Give names to all of your potato chips and befriend them. Take them with you to while picnicking in a public park. Loudly cry and mournfully call out their names as you eat them, also sporadically saying, "Oh, no! Not you, Christy! Why? Why couldn't I eat just one?" and "I'm sorry, Barry! Once I pop, I just can't stop."
20. Wear all your clothes backwards. Also walk backwards. If you run into someone, politely suggest that they watch where they're going.
21. Pretend a person you've never seen before is actually an old friend you haven't seen in months. If the person asks who you are, pretend to be offended and storm off.
22. Invite people to a surprise party for yourself, reminding them not to tell you about it.
23. Roll your windows down and blast dorky music while waiting at stoplights.
24. Apologize profusely when you run into inanimate objects.
25. Call someone by the wrong name. Argue heatedly with him/her when s/he tries to correct you.
26. Hum in a high pitched voice while pretending to watch a fly buzz around the room.
27. In the full view of several people (preferably strangers), go into the corner of a room, peek inside your manbag and loudly whisper "Hey, are you okay in there? Got enough air?"
28. Carry a manbag.
29. Go to one of those parties where people try to get you to buy overpriced junk, and freely admit, out loud, that you're only there for the food and possible freebies.
30. Tell everyone you know about your ribbon collection.
31. Dig a pit in your front yard, cover yourself with leaves, and jump out at people.
32. Write songs about your love for bacon that inadvertently sound Anti-Semitic. Also inadvertently sing them in front of Jewish people.
33. Develop a borderline creepy fascination with the number four.
34. When meeting someone for the first time, sneeze and cough "wetly" into your hand. Then immediately offer it to the other person for a friendly handshake.
35. Use imaginary words (be sure to have an imaginary definition ready for your imaginary word, just in case someone asks).
36. Go to Taco Bell and ask for a Big Mac.
37. Post an embarrassing status on Facebook over, and over, and over. Sometimes, Facebook is kind enough to do this for you without any effort on your part. (Insert sarcastic smile here!)
38. Stare at someone's ear while having a conversation with them. Refuse to break ear-contact even if the other person starts getting seriously weirded out...and they WILL get weirded out.
39. Be a happily single woman in her thirties.
40. Recite Justin Beiber lyrics as if they were lines in some great classical play. (Baby. Baby. Baby. NOOOO!) I'm telling you, that lyrical brilliance reads just like Shakespeare.... (not hatin', just sayin')
41. Ask people if they'd like to buy your invisible pickle.
42. When your friends have a roadkill deer in their yard, write a song about it.
43. Tell your new roommate at a conservative Southern Baptist Seminary that Joel Osteen is your favorite author.
44. Go to a thrift store just to hear the crazy people talk to themselves.
45. Go trick-or-treating. On the fourth of July.
46. Be entirely too passionate about your right to wear flip flops.
47. When your dryer buzzes at the laundromat, crack the door open, peek inside, and say, "Hey grandma, give me another quarter if you want to ride again."
48. Use a door (note: only awkward in situations involving other people, unless you happen to be particularly "gifted").
49. Write a blog about 101 socially awkward things and run out of things to write about at #49. Yeah. That was awkward...
1. Send yourself flowers and sign your coworker's name to the card. Loudly thank your coworker, making a huge production out of it.
2. When someone speaks over the loudspeaker at the grocery store, fall down, cover your ears and scream, "NOT THE VOICES AGAIN!!!"
3. Walk up to a stranger, sniff his shoulder, turn, and walk away.
4. Laugh. Maniacally. For no apparent reason.
5. Put cilantro in everything. Everything.
6. Tell someone you want to tell them a knock knock joke. Then ask them to start it.
7. While in public, loudly sing the incorrect lyrics to Elton John songs (ie. "hold me closer, Tony Danza" or "She's got electric boobs! Her mom does, too! You know I read about Charlie Sheen!").
8. Stare at people.
9. Smile at people.
10. Stare and smile at people.
11. Ask your blind date if s/he's ever let anyone else pick his/her nose.
12. Do this (it helps if you're a girl).
13. Eat onions and go breathe on people. Tell them they have bad breath.
14. Talk on the "banana phone" in public.
15. Ask for something in a different accent every time your waiter asks if he/she can get you anything.
16. Use the phrase "That's what she said!" when it makes no sense to use it. (i.e. "I went to the grocery last night." "THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!")
17. Wait till you're on an elevator with a complete stranger, then press the emergency stop button. After the elevator comes to a complete stop, inform the stranger that you are currently wearing new socks.
18. Go to donate blood dressed as Count Dracula.
19. Give names to all of your potato chips and befriend them. Take them with you to while picnicking in a public park. Loudly cry and mournfully call out their names as you eat them, also sporadically saying, "Oh, no! Not you, Christy! Why? Why couldn't I eat just one?" and "I'm sorry, Barry! Once I pop, I just can't stop."
20. Wear all your clothes backwards. Also walk backwards. If you run into someone, politely suggest that they watch where they're going.
21. Pretend a person you've never seen before is actually an old friend you haven't seen in months. If the person asks who you are, pretend to be offended and storm off.
22. Invite people to a surprise party for yourself, reminding them not to tell you about it.
23. Roll your windows down and blast dorky music while waiting at stoplights.
24. Apologize profusely when you run into inanimate objects.
25. Call someone by the wrong name. Argue heatedly with him/her when s/he tries to correct you.
26. Hum in a high pitched voice while pretending to watch a fly buzz around the room.
27. In the full view of several people (preferably strangers), go into the corner of a room, peek inside your manbag and loudly whisper "Hey, are you okay in there? Got enough air?"
28. Carry a manbag.
29. Go to one of those parties where people try to get you to buy overpriced junk, and freely admit, out loud, that you're only there for the food and possible freebies.
30. Tell everyone you know about your ribbon collection.
31. Dig a pit in your front yard, cover yourself with leaves, and jump out at people.
32. Write songs about your love for bacon that inadvertently sound Anti-Semitic. Also inadvertently sing them in front of Jewish people.
33. Develop a borderline creepy fascination with the number four.
34. When meeting someone for the first time, sneeze and cough "wetly" into your hand. Then immediately offer it to the other person for a friendly handshake.
35. Use imaginary words (be sure to have an imaginary definition ready for your imaginary word, just in case someone asks).
36. Go to Taco Bell and ask for a Big Mac.
37. Post an embarrassing status on Facebook over, and over, and over. Sometimes, Facebook is kind enough to do this for you without any effort on your part. (Insert sarcastic smile here!)
38. Stare at someone's ear while having a conversation with them. Refuse to break ear-contact even if the other person starts getting seriously weirded out...and they WILL get weirded out.
39. Be a happily single woman in her thirties.
40. Recite Justin Beiber lyrics as if they were lines in some great classical play. (Baby. Baby. Baby. NOOOO!) I'm telling you, that lyrical brilliance reads just like Shakespeare.... (not hatin', just sayin')
41. Ask people if they'd like to buy your invisible pickle.
42. When your friends have a roadkill deer in their yard, write a song about it.
43. Tell your new roommate at a conservative Southern Baptist Seminary that Joel Osteen is your favorite author.
44. Go to a thrift store just to hear the crazy people talk to themselves.
45. Go trick-or-treating. On the fourth of July.
46. Be entirely too passionate about your right to wear flip flops.
47. When your dryer buzzes at the laundromat, crack the door open, peek inside, and say, "Hey grandma, give me another quarter if you want to ride again."
48. Use a door (note: only awkward in situations involving other people, unless you happen to be particularly "gifted").
49. Write a blog about 101 socially awkward things and run out of things to write about at #49. Yeah. That was awkward...
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
SAA Ep.# 55: My First 10K
I ran my first 10K on Saturday, and well, there's really nothing funny about running a 10K...
...unless you're socially awkward like I am...
...and you lose your race number almost as soon as you got it...
...and you spill bright red Gatorade Prime all over your gray cotton athletic capris, right before the race...
...and you're wearing a misshapen headband that you knitted the night before and ran out of colored yarn and tried to fix it by combining that with black yarn and failed failed failed...
...and if you were one of the last "runners" to finish a six mile race, and acted as if you'd just won a marathon.
Yeah, maybe I should just stop typing and let you see this:
I'm awesome. If by awesome you mean, "a big dork."
But...that's why you love me, right?
(Hey, at least I'd beat the zombies!)
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
SAA Ep. #54: I Get Around
Sorry for the extended absence. I've been busy. First I was packing for a brief vacation (while simultaneously trying to make a birthday video for my nephew and watching the Cards compete in the World's Series), then I was on said brief vacation, and now I'm recovering from the brief vacation. I was out of town about 3.5 days, and about 20 hours of that was driving a rental car up to KY and back. And another 8 or so hours of that was riding as a passenger in my mom's car, but I digress.
Let's go back to that 20 hours of driving a rental car thing, because that's pretty much what this post is about. I'm 31 years old, but until recently, I've never actually rented a car. The only reason I did this time is because my car is dying, and I owe more on it than the car is actually worth (fun, fun!), so getting a new car isn't really an option at the moment. Then the amazing family I nanny for decided I needed a present for being their nanny/babysitter for 3 years, and they decided to pay for a rental car for my trip to KY. So I rented a car.
Now, the cheapest deal for renting a car around here was to rent one from the airport, and honestly, I'm not too sure that I'm supposed to rent a car from the airport unless I'm actually flying into the airport. So when I reserved the car, I had all this nervousness aside from the usual nervousness I feel when I try anything new--like renting a car. I was also nervous because I was renting a car when I wasn't sure I was supposed to be renting a car, but I figured I'd abide by my own version of the "don't ask, don't tell" policy. If they didn't ask me if I was flying in from another area, I wouldn't tell them that I wasn't.
My friend dropped me off at the airport and walked in with me (because I needed someone to hold my hand--I really don't do new experiences well). Everything went smoothly. I bid farewell to her, got in the car, and drove up to the gate to depart the rental car area.
Now, let me just say that driving a car that's not mine is like wearing someone else's clothes--only even more dangerous. This car only had about 1100 miles on it, so when I did something like step on the accelerator, it actually went vroom without a fight. When I stepped on the brakes, the car immediately stopped without any coaxing. This is what a car is supposed to do, but my poor old dying car needs prodding. It needs a firm hand. I actually kind of like this about my car. I know it's not going to do something that I haven't specifically told it to do. And this new car I was driving, well, it responded way too quickly for my comfort. And I didn't opt for the optional insurance (everyone says that's a rip-off...which I guess it is, unless you get into an accident). So I was a nervous wreck the whole time I was driving it, which was, as I said before, about 20 hours.
But before I ever got out of the gate, I had a problem. I couldn't figure out how to roll the windows down. So when the guy at the gate wanted to look at my receipt, I had to pull the "helpless blonde" routine, and the nice man showed me how to roll down my windows. I was pushing the button the wrong direction, okay. It could have happened to anyone.
But after the nice man taught me how to push a button, he asked me a question. "Where are you coming from?"
Ugh. I didn't want to admit that I was from the same city as the airport, so I said, "Around."
He said, "Everyone has to come from somewhere."
I said, "I'm from Kentucky," which wasn't a lie. I am from KY. That's why I was renting a car so I could drive to KY. He just didn't need to know that specific detail.
I got out of the airport and was on my way. It occurred to me a couple hours into my trip that I was going to double the mileage on the rental car. As I had unlimited mileage use for the car, I wasn't too worried (don't, ask, don't tell), but it just struck me as funny. I had never driven a car this new, and that made me even more nervous, but eventually I got the feel for the car.
And I drove that thing to KY and back without hurting it at all. I didn't have a wreck. I didn't run it off the road. I didn't get a scratch on it. And I was breathing a huge sigh of relief as I pulled into a gas station about 2 miles from the airport so I could refill the tank. It was then that I opened the car door directly into a concrete pole.
D'oh.
Fortunately, the story does have a happy ending. The car was undamaged. I turned it in. No one said a word about the fact that I'd doubled the mileage on the car.
And now I can add "car rental" to my list of life experiences.
Woo hoo! Dream big!
Let's go back to that 20 hours of driving a rental car thing, because that's pretty much what this post is about. I'm 31 years old, but until recently, I've never actually rented a car. The only reason I did this time is because my car is dying, and I owe more on it than the car is actually worth (fun, fun!), so getting a new car isn't really an option at the moment. Then the amazing family I nanny for decided I needed a present for being their nanny/babysitter for 3 years, and they decided to pay for a rental car for my trip to KY. So I rented a car.
Now, the cheapest deal for renting a car around here was to rent one from the airport, and honestly, I'm not too sure that I'm supposed to rent a car from the airport unless I'm actually flying into the airport. So when I reserved the car, I had all this nervousness aside from the usual nervousness I feel when I try anything new--like renting a car. I was also nervous because I was renting a car when I wasn't sure I was supposed to be renting a car, but I figured I'd abide by my own version of the "don't ask, don't tell" policy. If they didn't ask me if I was flying in from another area, I wouldn't tell them that I wasn't.
My friend dropped me off at the airport and walked in with me (because I needed someone to hold my hand--I really don't do new experiences well). Everything went smoothly. I bid farewell to her, got in the car, and drove up to the gate to depart the rental car area.
Now, let me just say that driving a car that's not mine is like wearing someone else's clothes--only even more dangerous. This car only had about 1100 miles on it, so when I did something like step on the accelerator, it actually went vroom without a fight. When I stepped on the brakes, the car immediately stopped without any coaxing. This is what a car is supposed to do, but my poor old dying car needs prodding. It needs a firm hand. I actually kind of like this about my car. I know it's not going to do something that I haven't specifically told it to do. And this new car I was driving, well, it responded way too quickly for my comfort. And I didn't opt for the optional insurance (everyone says that's a rip-off...which I guess it is, unless you get into an accident). So I was a nervous wreck the whole time I was driving it, which was, as I said before, about 20 hours.
But before I ever got out of the gate, I had a problem. I couldn't figure out how to roll the windows down. So when the guy at the gate wanted to look at my receipt, I had to pull the "helpless blonde" routine, and the nice man showed me how to roll down my windows. I was pushing the button the wrong direction, okay. It could have happened to anyone.
But after the nice man taught me how to push a button, he asked me a question. "Where are you coming from?"
Ugh. I didn't want to admit that I was from the same city as the airport, so I said, "Around."
He said, "Everyone has to come from somewhere."
I said, "I'm from Kentucky," which wasn't a lie. I am from KY. That's why I was renting a car so I could drive to KY. He just didn't need to know that specific detail.
I got out of the airport and was on my way. It occurred to me a couple hours into my trip that I was going to double the mileage on the rental car. As I had unlimited mileage use for the car, I wasn't too worried (don't, ask, don't tell), but it just struck me as funny. I had never driven a car this new, and that made me even more nervous, but eventually I got the feel for the car.
And I drove that thing to KY and back without hurting it at all. I didn't have a wreck. I didn't run it off the road. I didn't get a scratch on it. And I was breathing a huge sigh of relief as I pulled into a gas station about 2 miles from the airport so I could refill the tank. It was then that I opened the car door directly into a concrete pole.
D'oh.
Fortunately, the story does have a happy ending. The car was undamaged. I turned it in. No one said a word about the fact that I'd doubled the mileage on the car.
And now I can add "car rental" to my list of life experiences.
Woo hoo! Dream big!
Sunday, October 9, 2011
SAA Ep.# 53: Worst. Date. Ever.
Yesterday, I looked nice. Cute dress. Snazzy jewelry. Nice shoes. Meh hair (My hair was supposed to be all cute, but it refused to cooperate and I had to put it in the "bun of shame." I do not like the bun of shame). I even painted my toenails. It happens occasionally. All of this was because I went to a wedding for two of my friends. Two of my friends got married. To each other (a guy and a girl, FYI). Aww. Good times.
I knew that the bridesmaids were all going to be wearing an autumnal shade of red, so I opted to wear a nice chocolate brown dress. When I got to the wedding, I noticed that the ushers, groomsmen, oh, and also the groom, were all wearing handsome chocolate brown suits. So yeah. I thought I was being clever by not matching the bridesmaids, and I ended up matching the groomsmen.
The ceremony was lovely. I helped serve desserts and cut cakes at the reception. Actually, I think a more descriptive term for what I did to those poor cakes might be "massacre." There's a reason--several reasons really--why people shouldn't let me play with knives.
After the happy couple drove off in their shrink wrapped and whipped cream covered car, I helped clean up the room where the reception was held. Wedding aftermath is ridonkulous, but it went by quickly. The couple who got married are such awesome people that they have a LOT of friends who wanted to help, so it actually took less than an hour. I mean, in the world of cleaning up after weddings, that's like a record.
When we were done cleaning up, I found myself standing in the parking lot, chatting with one of the ushers and one of the wedding guests. Both of them were guys. We stood there for an hour until we realized that our chat could be taken to a better venue--like perhaps some place with food and/or a functional restroom. Since it just so happened to be the usher's birthday, I suggested we go out to eat somewhere. And since we are all poor, he settled on Taco Bell.
We drove separately. I arrived at the same time as the usher, but the other guy apparently didn't know any of our awesome short cuts from the church to Taco Bell. Seriously...who doesn't have a map in their heads that charts the best possible routes (and back up routes) from any given point to the nearest Taco Bell? Anyway, my friend and I entered the restaurant to wait for our friend.
As he opened the door for me, my friend said, "Wow. I'll bet people think we're on a date."
I said, "I got all snazzed up and you took me to Taco Bell. This is the Worst. Date. Ever."
That would have only been mildly funny, but at that exact moment, one of the moms and kids I know from the drop-in center where I work walked by. Since someone I knew well enough to be embarrassed in front of, yet not well enough to be able to just play it off, had heard my "Worst. Date. Ever." comment, it made that comment about 25 gazbillion times funnier. I tried to make some small talk with the mom and the kid, but she kept giving us "the look." If you don't know what "the look" is, let me know and I'll write a blog about it sometime. Then she got her food and said, smiling, "You two have fun." "You two" of course, referred to me and my "date."
When our Taco-Bell-Directionally-Challenged friend finally made it to Taco Bell, we were standing there trying to laugh off the awkwardness. The late arriver offered to pay for my "date's" dinner, since it was his birthday. So, he got a free meal, and I had to pay for mine. Worst. Date. Ever. To make matters worse, there was some kind of inexplicable hold-up at the cash register when I went to place my order (the guys went first--Worst. Date. Ever.). So I stood in line for about five minutes AFTER they'd already gotten their food. I'm not sure what the hold-up was. I'm pretty sure the cashier was on some kind of prescription medication, or perhaps she needed to be on some. At any rate, the guys went and sat down while I stood there. Waiting. My "date" eventually came and stood beside me so I wouldn't have to wait by myself, but I think it was at the other guy's suggestion. Really. Worst. Date. Ever.
After I got my food (because I personally had to go pick it up--Worst. Date. Ever.), we did the typical Taco Bell activities. We rejoiced over the fact that there are approximately 53 different flavors of Mountain Dew available at the soda station. We exulted over the existence of sporks (the world is just a happier place with sporks). We played with the salsa and sauce packets with their pithy sayings. And in all actuality, it wasn't a bad "date" at all.
Then my "date" started singing. Out loud. In a restaurant. Which might sound like a bad thing, but it wasn't like Will Ferrell in "Elf" when he started going, "I'm SINGING! I'm in a store and I'm SINGING!" He was actually singing well. And to me. And I said, "Well, this date just got a little better." Then I went and threw my own trash away and drove myself home, thus ending the Worst. Date. Ever. Aww.
To be honest, I'm the sort of girl who would prefer a Taco Bell date to a fancy dinner. Taco Bell isn't my favorite, but there's always Sonic. You know that Sonic commercial with the guy who's like, "YOU'RE A CHEAP DATE!"? Yeah, that's so me. My idea of a fancy restaurant is Applebee's. My idea of a REALLY fancy restaurant is Olive Garden. I mean, they even have cloth napkins! Not that cloth napkins are a foreign idea to me; I typically spend time with people who think their shirt sleeves make excellent napkins. But I digress...
Sometimes I wonder why a girl like me is still single. I figure most guys would want a girl on whom they didn't have to spend a fortune. But I think most of them expect to have to do that, so girls like me just confuse them. See, when you really get down to it, I'm the sort of girl who's so low-maintenance that I'm high-maintenance. Yeah, I'll just let you think that one out for a while.
Incidentally, I do remember my actual Worst. Date. Ever. I went on a blind date with some guy who almost got us kicked out of the theater because he was throwing Gobstoppers at the screen. Thus ended my short-lived career as a blind-dater.
Hmm. I definitely much prefer the fake Worst. Date. Ever.s to the real Worst. Date. Ever.s. In fact, I highly recommend them.
I knew that the bridesmaids were all going to be wearing an autumnal shade of red, so I opted to wear a nice chocolate brown dress. When I got to the wedding, I noticed that the ushers, groomsmen, oh, and also the groom, were all wearing handsome chocolate brown suits. So yeah. I thought I was being clever by not matching the bridesmaids, and I ended up matching the groomsmen.
The ceremony was lovely. I helped serve desserts and cut cakes at the reception. Actually, I think a more descriptive term for what I did to those poor cakes might be "massacre." There's a reason--several reasons really--why people shouldn't let me play with knives.
After the happy couple drove off in their shrink wrapped and whipped cream covered car, I helped clean up the room where the reception was held. Wedding aftermath is ridonkulous, but it went by quickly. The couple who got married are such awesome people that they have a LOT of friends who wanted to help, so it actually took less than an hour. I mean, in the world of cleaning up after weddings, that's like a record.
When we were done cleaning up, I found myself standing in the parking lot, chatting with one of the ushers and one of the wedding guests. Both of them were guys. We stood there for an hour until we realized that our chat could be taken to a better venue--like perhaps some place with food and/or a functional restroom. Since it just so happened to be the usher's birthday, I suggested we go out to eat somewhere. And since we are all poor, he settled on Taco Bell.
We drove separately. I arrived at the same time as the usher, but the other guy apparently didn't know any of our awesome short cuts from the church to Taco Bell. Seriously...who doesn't have a map in their heads that charts the best possible routes (and back up routes) from any given point to the nearest Taco Bell? Anyway, my friend and I entered the restaurant to wait for our friend.
As he opened the door for me, my friend said, "Wow. I'll bet people think we're on a date."
I said, "I got all snazzed up and you took me to Taco Bell. This is the Worst. Date. Ever."
That would have only been mildly funny, but at that exact moment, one of the moms and kids I know from the drop-in center where I work walked by. Since someone I knew well enough to be embarrassed in front of, yet not well enough to be able to just play it off, had heard my "Worst. Date. Ever." comment, it made that comment about 25 gazbillion times funnier. I tried to make some small talk with the mom and the kid, but she kept giving us "the look." If you don't know what "the look" is, let me know and I'll write a blog about it sometime. Then she got her food and said, smiling, "You two have fun." "You two" of course, referred to me and my "date."
When our Taco-Bell-Directionally-Challenged friend finally made it to Taco Bell, we were standing there trying to laugh off the awkwardness. The late arriver offered to pay for my "date's" dinner, since it was his birthday. So, he got a free meal, and I had to pay for mine. Worst. Date. Ever. To make matters worse, there was some kind of inexplicable hold-up at the cash register when I went to place my order (the guys went first--Worst. Date. Ever.). So I stood in line for about five minutes AFTER they'd already gotten their food. I'm not sure what the hold-up was. I'm pretty sure the cashier was on some kind of prescription medication, or perhaps she needed to be on some. At any rate, the guys went and sat down while I stood there. Waiting. My "date" eventually came and stood beside me so I wouldn't have to wait by myself, but I think it was at the other guy's suggestion. Really. Worst. Date. Ever.
After I got my food (because I personally had to go pick it up--Worst. Date. Ever.), we did the typical Taco Bell activities. We rejoiced over the fact that there are approximately 53 different flavors of Mountain Dew available at the soda station. We exulted over the existence of sporks (the world is just a happier place with sporks). We played with the salsa and sauce packets with their pithy sayings. And in all actuality, it wasn't a bad "date" at all.
Then my "date" started singing. Out loud. In a restaurant. Which might sound like a bad thing, but it wasn't like Will Ferrell in "Elf" when he started going, "I'm SINGING! I'm in a store and I'm SINGING!" He was actually singing well. And to me. And I said, "Well, this date just got a little better." Then I went and threw my own trash away and drove myself home, thus ending the Worst. Date. Ever. Aww.
To be honest, I'm the sort of girl who would prefer a Taco Bell date to a fancy dinner. Taco Bell isn't my favorite, but there's always Sonic. You know that Sonic commercial with the guy who's like, "YOU'RE A CHEAP DATE!"? Yeah, that's so me. My idea of a fancy restaurant is Applebee's. My idea of a REALLY fancy restaurant is Olive Garden. I mean, they even have cloth napkins! Not that cloth napkins are a foreign idea to me; I typically spend time with people who think their shirt sleeves make excellent napkins. But I digress...
Sometimes I wonder why a girl like me is still single. I figure most guys would want a girl on whom they didn't have to spend a fortune. But I think most of them expect to have to do that, so girls like me just confuse them. See, when you really get down to it, I'm the sort of girl who's so low-maintenance that I'm high-maintenance. Yeah, I'll just let you think that one out for a while.
Incidentally, I do remember my actual Worst. Date. Ever. I went on a blind date with some guy who almost got us kicked out of the theater because he was throwing Gobstoppers at the screen. Thus ended my short-lived career as a blind-dater.
Hmm. I definitely much prefer the fake Worst. Date. Ever.s to the real Worst. Date. Ever.s. In fact, I highly recommend them.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
SAA Ep# 52: The Social Awkward Network
Dear Facebook:
It was cute. The first thirty-seven and a half times, it was adorable. And by "adorable," I mean "slightly annoying, yet eventually predictable." You'd get us hooked on whatever new format you'd created, and then just when everything had settled down again and become the new norm, you'd shake things up and introduce something wildly different and force us to relearn a new way of using you.
Sure, it was fun playing with all the new applications. It was cool being able to instant message while simultaneously checking out that funny pic (that darn Lolrus and his bukkit gets me every time). It was awesome how you taught us all whole new ways to stalk our friends...and their friends. But now you have once again rocked our worlds by screwing with the system that enables us tosocially network network socially waste time online have an electronic social life.
Not cool, Facebook. Not cool. Do you have any idea what kind of anarchy you have caused by not allowing people to easily separate their "top stories" from their "recent stories"? Do you have any idea how dumb it is to even call them "top stories" to begin with, as if all our lives are nothing but headlines on a neverending news show?
Neverending New-ews Show. Ah ah ah, ah ah ah, ah ah ah.... Sorry. I was having an 80's movie flashback. Let's move on.
Yeah, Facebook. You have pretty much caused a rift in the time-space continuum with your latest antics. Maybe that explains why last night, whilst checking my friends' statuses (stati?), I experienced a shift back to the older, happier days of Facebooking. For a few blissful, fleeting moments, I could separate my "top stories" from my "recent stories" without the use of a gazbillion lists that, quite frankly, I don't think I'll ever use. Then, after giving me (and every other Facebook user who was online at the time) a brief taste of classic Facebook joy, you mercilessly reverted back to the new, evil version of Facebook. You crushed our hopes, Facebook! Is that your newest application? Hope crushing!?
And I have to point out that another one of your glitches caused me muy embarrasmento (I can't actually speak Spanish) a few weeks ago. My power was out, so I proceeded to text my status to Facebook, saying that I was forced to take a candlelight shower. You proceeded to have a glitch. The glitch proceeded to cause the status about my taking a shower to repost at least seven times throughout the course of the next twenty-four hours. I didn't know about it because I didn't have electricity/internet access, but oh, my friends at church all mentioned that I probably shouldn't take so many candlelight showers and then post about it on Facebook. I don't usually. I mean, I do take showers, but I don't usually post about them on Facebook. The one time I did, you had a glitch that let everyone know how clean I am...in the candlelight. So thanks for that. Thanks for all the things you do that make my life more awkward.
Jerkface.
Jerkfacebook.
What's that you say? You say that you are free to use, and therefore I have no right to complain? You say that no one is forcing me to continue to use your service? Of course you would say that. But Facebook isn't free. I don't have to use a credit card in order to virtually "poke" someone, but you know that it costs much more than mere money to use you, don't you, Facebook? You have gotten me hooked on you like a vampire hooked on his own personal brand of heroin blood. I am your slave.
So I'm doomed, Facebook. I can't stop using you. You had me at "sign in." You had me at "sign in."
For the socially awkward people like me, Facebook is the only means to having a semblance of a social life. So the only thing for me to do is to just keep using you, despite the ridiculous changes you've made, despite the other ridiculous changes I hear you're about to make. Seriously, Facebook, I've heard that, pretty soon, you're going to know me better than I know myself. And then what? What changes lie in store for us in the Facebook future? One day, are you just going to start reading our minds and automatically uploading whatever random things that pop into our heads. The annoying scroll bar ticker up at the side that never goes away will say: "Facebook has automatically read Ruth Cambpell's mind and updated their (not her, but their, because you obviously think I'm two or more people) status: I like pie." Yeah. That's totally creepy, Facebook. Not only are you enabling us to stalk others with exponentially greater efficiency, but you're also starting to stalk US. And for the record, I do like pie. But you already knew that, didn't you?
And while I'm at it, Facebook, your name is stupid. A book of faces? You're not a book. You're a website. I guess "Facewebsite" is a little too awkward sounding, but then you're getting to be quite the expert on awkward. And, by the way, everytime I hear the name "Mark Zuckerberg" I start thinking about Zuckerman's Famous Pig from Charlotte's Web. And then I start thinking about the "Zuckerman's Famous Pig" song from the old Charlotte's Web cartoon. And then it gets stuck in my head, which is annoying. And then I remember that Charlotte died. And I cry.
See what you did, Facebook? You made me cry.
Why can't I quit you?
Sincerely,
A. R. Campbell
It was cute. The first thirty-seven and a half times, it was adorable. And by "adorable," I mean "slightly annoying, yet eventually predictable." You'd get us hooked on whatever new format you'd created, and then just when everything had settled down again and become the new norm, you'd shake things up and introduce something wildly different and force us to relearn a new way of using you.
Sure, it was fun playing with all the new applications. It was cool being able to instant message while simultaneously checking out that funny pic (that darn Lolrus and his bukkit gets me every time). It was awesome how you taught us all whole new ways to stalk our friends...and their friends. But now you have once again rocked our worlds by screwing with the system that enables us to
Not cool, Facebook. Not cool. Do you have any idea what kind of anarchy you have caused by not allowing people to easily separate their "top stories" from their "recent stories"? Do you have any idea how dumb it is to even call them "top stories" to begin with, as if all our lives are nothing but headlines on a neverending news show?
Neverending New-ews Show. Ah ah ah, ah ah ah, ah ah ah.... Sorry. I was having an 80's movie flashback. Let's move on.
Yeah, Facebook. You have pretty much caused a rift in the time-space continuum with your latest antics. Maybe that explains why last night, whilst checking my friends' statuses (stati?), I experienced a shift back to the older, happier days of Facebooking. For a few blissful, fleeting moments, I could separate my "top stories" from my "recent stories" without the use of a gazbillion lists that, quite frankly, I don't think I'll ever use. Then, after giving me (and every other Facebook user who was online at the time) a brief taste of classic Facebook joy, you mercilessly reverted back to the new, evil version of Facebook. You crushed our hopes, Facebook! Is that your newest application? Hope crushing!?
And I have to point out that another one of your glitches caused me muy embarrasmento (I can't actually speak Spanish) a few weeks ago. My power was out, so I proceeded to text my status to Facebook, saying that I was forced to take a candlelight shower. You proceeded to have a glitch. The glitch proceeded to cause the status about my taking a shower to repost at least seven times throughout the course of the next twenty-four hours. I didn't know about it because I didn't have electricity/internet access, but oh, my friends at church all mentioned that I probably shouldn't take so many candlelight showers and then post about it on Facebook. I don't usually. I mean, I do take showers, but I don't usually post about them on Facebook. The one time I did, you had a glitch that let everyone know how clean I am...in the candlelight. So thanks for that. Thanks for all the things you do that make my life more awkward.
Jerkface.
Jerkfacebook.
What's that you say? You say that you are free to use, and therefore I have no right to complain? You say that no one is forcing me to continue to use your service? Of course you would say that. But Facebook isn't free. I don't have to use a credit card in order to virtually "poke" someone, but you know that it costs much more than mere money to use you, don't you, Facebook? You have gotten me hooked on you like a vampire hooked on his own personal brand of heroin blood. I am your slave.
So I'm doomed, Facebook. I can't stop using you. You had me at "sign in." You had me at "sign in."
For the socially awkward people like me, Facebook is the only means to having a semblance of a social life. So the only thing for me to do is to just keep using you, despite the ridiculous changes you've made, despite the other ridiculous changes I hear you're about to make. Seriously, Facebook, I've heard that, pretty soon, you're going to know me better than I know myself. And then what? What changes lie in store for us in the Facebook future? One day, are you just going to start reading our minds and automatically uploading whatever random things that pop into our heads. The annoying scroll bar ticker up at the side that never goes away will say: "Facebook has automatically read Ruth Cambpell's mind and updated their (not her, but their, because you obviously think I'm two or more people) status: I like pie." Yeah. That's totally creepy, Facebook. Not only are you enabling us to stalk others with exponentially greater efficiency, but you're also starting to stalk US. And for the record, I do like pie. But you already knew that, didn't you?
And while I'm at it, Facebook, your name is stupid. A book of faces? You're not a book. You're a website. I guess "Facewebsite" is a little too awkward sounding, but then you're getting to be quite the expert on awkward. And, by the way, everytime I hear the name "Mark Zuckerberg" I start thinking about Zuckerman's Famous Pig from Charlotte's Web. And then I start thinking about the "Zuckerman's Famous Pig" song from the old Charlotte's Web cartoon. And then it gets stuck in my head, which is annoying. And then I remember that Charlotte died. And I cry.
See what you did, Facebook? You made me cry.
Why can't I quit you?
Sincerely,
A. R. Campbell
Saturday, October 1, 2011
SAA Ep. 51: Cleverly Disguised as a Responsible Adult
I just watched "Finding Neverland." I watched the entire movie. I've only watched it once before (my roommate owns it), and honestly, I didn't like it very much, which is surprising. I love Johnny Depp. I love Kate Winslet. I love Dustin Hoffman, although it was strange seeing him in something Peter Pan related where he wasn't playing the best Captain Hook EVER. On a related note, I also thought I liked Peter Pan. I actually read the book for the first time a few weeks ago, and I was underwhelmed. It wasn't all bad, of course, but after seeing a gazbillion different adaptations of Peter Pan, the book wasn't very magical anymore. And I suspect J. M. Barrie was a better playwright than he was a novelist.
Playwright? Is thatwright? Shouldn't it be playwrite, since a playwright is someone who, you know, writes plays? ...I'm getting off subject. Actually, I was already off subject to begin with, and I've gotten further off subject.
I liked "Finding Neverland" better the second time, though I still can't say it's one of my favorite movies. So, why on a Saturday evening, would I be watching a movie I don't like? I mean, I'm socially awkward and don't have a swingin' social life or anything, but I could always just go to sleep. The older I get, the more exciting it is to go to sleep. Maybe that's why I don't like "Finding Neverland." Maybe it's because I've grown up too much understand it.
Only, I haven't grown up. And that's what this post is actually supposed to be about. I'm getting there.
See, I watched "Finding Neverland" in its entirety because I was looking for one of the quotes in the film. I couldn't find this particular quote online anywhere, and that bothered me. But I really really wanted to get this quote, so I watched the movie. The quote wasn't in the movie. I flipped back through the scenes, thinking I'd just missed it somehow, or perhaps just forgotten which film it was in. Then I remembered.
The quote wasn't actually in the movie. It was in the deleted scenes.
Fail.
I watched an entire hour-and-a-half long movie that I don't even like when I could have watched a minute long clip from the deleted scenes menu. Fail. Fail. Fail.
No wonder I couldn't find the quote online.
Well, now maybe someone can find the quote online, because I'm going to post it:
Michael (small boy): Why haven't you had any children?
J.M. Barrie: Well, that's a very good question that I'm afraid I don't quite know the answer to, but I suppose it's because only grown-ups can have children.
Michael: Oh. All right.
Though I didn't care too much for the film, I remembered this scene (and sort of wish now that they hadn't edited it out). I can relate to this scene. To the innocent bystander, I look like a responsible adult. But I suspect that one of the reasons why the good Lord has not allowed me to (get married and) have children is because...well...maybe you really do have to be a grown-up to have children. And I'm not really a grown-up.
For example, sometimes, when I see a kid I really like (this typically happens to me about 38 times or more in the course of any given day), I start acting a little silly. Kids like that, see. And then the kid starts acting silly. Then I start acting a little sillier. Then the kid starts acting ridiculously silly, and the parent starts fussing at the kid.
And I exit. Stage left.
Then there was this one time a bunch of people I knew met at a park to walk or run. I ran past a family I know pretty well, and the kids suddenly decided they were gonna start running with Miss Ruth instead of staying with their mom.
I admit, somewhere in the back of my mind, a little voice said, "Miss Ruth, maybe you should make sure that the mom knows her kids are with you and that they're safe. That would be the responsible adult sort of thing to do." Then the kid in me said, "Nah! They'll be fine! Let's just RUN!"
And I proceeded to literally run off with her kids.
A few minutes later the kids' dad ran up to his kids and said, "Your mom doesn't know where you are. You're supposed to stay with her."
Oops.
So, I've found myself apologizing to parents a LOT for getting their kids in trouble. The parents always say things like, "Oh, it's not your fault. They know better." But my thought is, "Do they? They're kids. I don't really have that excuse. I'm supposedly a responsible adult. I'm the one who is supposed to know better."
I guess you don't have to move to Neverland in order to stay a kid forever. You just have to be a socially awkward superhero.
And I'dwright write more about that, but I just realized there's an old skool Batman rerun on tv! KAPOW!
Playwright? Is that
I liked "Finding Neverland" better the second time, though I still can't say it's one of my favorite movies. So, why on a Saturday evening, would I be watching a movie I don't like? I mean, I'm socially awkward and don't have a swingin' social life or anything, but I could always just go to sleep. The older I get, the more exciting it is to go to sleep. Maybe that's why I don't like "Finding Neverland." Maybe it's because I've grown up too much understand it.
Only, I haven't grown up. And that's what this post is actually supposed to be about. I'm getting there.
See, I watched "Finding Neverland" in its entirety because I was looking for one of the quotes in the film. I couldn't find this particular quote online anywhere, and that bothered me. But I really really wanted to get this quote, so I watched the movie. The quote wasn't in the movie. I flipped back through the scenes, thinking I'd just missed it somehow, or perhaps just forgotten which film it was in. Then I remembered.
The quote wasn't actually in the movie. It was in the deleted scenes.
Fail.
I watched an entire hour-and-a-half long movie that I don't even like when I could have watched a minute long clip from the deleted scenes menu. Fail. Fail. Fail.
No wonder I couldn't find the quote online.
Well, now maybe someone can find the quote online, because I'm going to post it:
Michael (small boy): Why haven't you had any children?
J.M. Barrie: Well, that's a very good question that I'm afraid I don't quite know the answer to, but I suppose it's because only grown-ups can have children.
Michael: Oh. All right.
Though I didn't care too much for the film, I remembered this scene (and sort of wish now that they hadn't edited it out). I can relate to this scene. To the innocent bystander, I look like a responsible adult. But I suspect that one of the reasons why the good Lord has not allowed me to (get married and) have children is because...well...maybe you really do have to be a grown-up to have children. And I'm not really a grown-up.
For example, sometimes, when I see a kid I really like (this typically happens to me about 38 times or more in the course of any given day), I start acting a little silly. Kids like that, see. And then the kid starts acting silly. Then I start acting a little sillier. Then the kid starts acting ridiculously silly, and the parent starts fussing at the kid.
And I exit. Stage left.
Then there was this one time a bunch of people I knew met at a park to walk or run. I ran past a family I know pretty well, and the kids suddenly decided they were gonna start running with Miss Ruth instead of staying with their mom.
I admit, somewhere in the back of my mind, a little voice said, "Miss Ruth, maybe you should make sure that the mom knows her kids are with you and that they're safe. That would be the responsible adult sort of thing to do." Then the kid in me said, "Nah! They'll be fine! Let's just RUN!"
And I proceeded to literally run off with her kids.
A few minutes later the kids' dad ran up to his kids and said, "Your mom doesn't know where you are. You're supposed to stay with her."
Oops.
So, I've found myself apologizing to parents a LOT for getting their kids in trouble. The parents always say things like, "Oh, it's not your fault. They know better." But my thought is, "Do they? They're kids. I don't really have that excuse. I'm supposedly a responsible adult. I'm the one who is supposed to know better."
I guess you don't have to move to Neverland in order to stay a kid forever. You just have to be a socially awkward superhero.
And I'd
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Embarrassing Confession #8: A Sound Regret
I can make just about any animal sound you could ever possibly want to hear. My dog and cat impression have fooled dogs and cats around the continental United States--and also a puppy in Thailand. I can convincingly imitate a horse, a cow, a sheep, a goat (those last two have subtle differences only the experienced animal imitator can hear), a frog, a piggy, and a monkey. My velociraptor is the stuff of legend. My elephant imitation has a cult following.
Simply put, you haven't lived until you've heard my rendition of "Old MacDonald Had a Farm."
I could have been a cartoon voice. I could have been a secret agent. But no, no. I'm using my mad skills only to entertain the children I care for. ...at least that's what I'm telling you. If I told you anything else, I might have to kill you.
My expertise isn't limited to animal sounds. I'm a true first soprano, which means I can imitate lots of really high noises, but I'm versatile enough to have been told by more than one person that I'm the best female Sean Connery impersonator they've ever heard. If you know me in real life and ask me to demonstrate this unique ability, please note that I will pretend I have no idea what you're talking about.
However, there is one sound that I have never been able to duplicate. I hear other people making this noise, and it fills me with shame. With all the sounds I have mastered, why does this one sound still elude me?
No matter how hard I try, I can't sound like Chewbacca from Star Wars. My best attempt sounded sort of like a seal giving birth.
And I'm not sure whether to be embarrassed because I can't sound like Chewbacca, or if I should be embarrassed because I'm embarrased that I can't sound like Chewbacca.
It's okay. I'm awesome enough to be embarrassed about both of these things at the same time.
Simply put, you haven't lived until you've heard my rendition of "Old MacDonald Had a Farm."
I could have been a cartoon voice. I could have been a secret agent. But no, no. I'm using my mad skills only to entertain the children I care for. ...at least that's what I'm telling you. If I told you anything else, I might have to kill you.
My expertise isn't limited to animal sounds. I'm a true first soprano, which means I can imitate lots of really high noises, but I'm versatile enough to have been told by more than one person that I'm the best female Sean Connery impersonator they've ever heard. If you know me in real life and ask me to demonstrate this unique ability, please note that I will pretend I have no idea what you're talking about.
However, there is one sound that I have never been able to duplicate. I hear other people making this noise, and it fills me with shame. With all the sounds I have mastered, why does this one sound still elude me?
No matter how hard I try, I can't sound like Chewbacca from Star Wars. My best attempt sounded sort of like a seal giving birth.
And I'm not sure whether to be embarrassed because I can't sound like Chewbacca, or if I should be embarrassed because I'm embarrased that I can't sound like Chewbacca.
It's okay. I'm awesome enough to be embarrassed about both of these things at the same time.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Socially Awkward Girl: The Graphic Novel!
Last week, it was Superhero Week at the drop-in childcare center where I work. We did comic books with the kids. Well, most of them weren't really that interested in drawing their own comic books (which was sad). But I was WAY into drawing my own comic book (which was happy).
It is obvious that drawing is not my very special talent, but here's some pics of thecomic book graphc novel I made:
It is obvious that drawing is not my very special talent, but here's some pics of the
The End
?
Sunday, September 25, 2011
SAA Ep. #50: A Phlebotomist's Work is All In Vein!
We've already established that vampires do not, in fact, give blood. Therefore, I am not a vampire. Also, the kids I babysat last night confirmed that given the fact that I eat food, I cannot be an android. So, I'm neither an android nor a vampire.
Also I gave blood on Friday.
I know, I know. We've already had a socially awkward adventure dealing with a blood drive. I can't help it if there's excessive awkwardness to be had by going to wait in line to get asked a gazbillion embarrassing questions and then having a big ol' needle shoved in your arm. That's just how it is, my friend.
I've only given blood twice recently, so maybe I'm jumping the gun, but I really think I've figured out how to have the most socially awkward fun at blood drives. The key is to wait until the last couple hours of the blood drive. That way all the people working at the blood drive are tired and starting to get loopy. Now, please don't misunderstand. They're still doing their jobs well. I seriously doubt they got my blood mixed up with another person's blood or anything like that. They just started acting a little silly and saying whatever came into their heads. And sometimes that was awkward.
For instance, there was this really nice, seemingly normal lady (RNSNL for short) who came to help me get situated on mymedieval torture device blood donation chair. I was glad it was her and not Hot Guy. Hot Guy actually wasn't all that hot, honestly, but he was a reasonably attractive 30ish aged man who stuck out like a sore thumb--like an attractive sore thumb--amongst all the 40-50 aged women who were working the blood drive. But whether Hot Guy was actually hot or not doesn't matter. I would have had all sorts of awkwardness around him, and to be honest, I was already nervous enough. Something about getting a needle painfully jabbed up my arm tends to make me slightly less than comfortable, you know....
Anyway, so RNSNL helped me get on the table and put one of those tourniquet things on my arm, all the while asking if there was anything she could do to make me more comfortable. The first thought that came into my head was, "Well, yes, you could stop cutting off the circulation in my arm," but I figured that was kind of necessary. Then she gasped. I immediately looked at my arm, then at her, then at my arm again, expecting to see my own blood gushing out from somewhere. But no needle had touched my skin at that point. No, RNSNL was gazing in awe at my arm, as if she had never seen veins before.
"Your veins are exciting!" she exclaimed. "I never thought I'd say that a person's veins are exciting!"
I gave her a courtesy laugh and thought to myself, "Hmm, I never thought I'd hear you say that, either."
"Your veins are just SO exciting!" she said again. Then she went off and left me to squeeze a plastic handle in order to excite my veins even more.
A few minutes later, another completely different RNSNL, who was standing by the side of anothervictim donor, suddenly gasped and started shouting at me. I looked at my arm. I looked at her. I looked at my arm. No blood. But she came rushing over to me and yanked off the tourniquet thingy. "Your fingers were turning purple! They were the same color as your blouse!" she gasped. And I suppose my fingers were a lovely shade of lavender, just like the shirt I was wearing. Apart from being ghastly pale, my skin also changes colors easily. My fingers felt fine.
So I laughed and tried to reassure the second RNSNL. "Don't worry," I said. "My skin changes color." She looked uncertain, so for some inexplicable reason, I added, "I'm a chameleon."
The second RNSNL didn't laugh. I don't blame her. But before she left to return to hervictim donor, she made a point of caressing the inside of my elbow and saying, "You have such pretty veins."
Obviously, I should find a plebotomist (there's your vocab word for the day) convention and start charging admission. "Twenty dollars! Twenty dollars to see the girl with the exciting, pretty veins! And also, I'm a chameleon!"
I was kind of hoping that Hot Guy would come by and notice my veins, but apparently he's a leg man.
Well, the first RNSNL finally got back with me. She started rubbing my arm down with iodine, all the while muttering about what a blessing my veins were. Then she did the necessary needle jabbing and left me to bleed in a baggy. I'm telling you. You haven't lived until you've seen your own blood in a baggy.
Five minutes later, I had the two RNSNLs rush to my side and start frantically clipping things. Apparently, they weren't ready for me to be done. The second RNSNL said, "Girl, you are too fast for us. You're a quick bleeder!" The first RNSNL said, "Oh, what a blessing!"
Seriously, these people need a vacation. I mean, I do try to bleed fast. I kind of like rushing through that whole "there's a needle up my arm" thing. But they were acting like they had just won the blood donor lottery or something. I guess if I'm this awesome at giving blood, I really should do it more often.
Then, for whatever reason, the two RNSNLs left me all alone to hold my arm up above my head. It was while I was in this ridiculous position when Hot Guy finally approached me. He tenderly wrapped my arm in red stretchy gauze, all the while talking to one of the RNSNLs about how his girlfriend made crappy lasagna. Frankly, I was getting mixed signals. Was Hot Guy trying to hint that he had a girlfriend and wasn't interested in picking up chicks at a blood drive, or was he hinting that he would prefer a girlfriend with great veins who also made great lasagna? Either way, he didn't mention my obviously spectacular veins, and I figured that a blood drive really would be a horrible place for a guy to pick up chicks.
Unless you happen to be a vampire. But then picking up chicks might have a-whole-nudder meaning.
Also I gave blood on Friday.
I know, I know. We've already had a socially awkward adventure dealing with a blood drive. I can't help it if there's excessive awkwardness to be had by going to wait in line to get asked a gazbillion embarrassing questions and then having a big ol' needle shoved in your arm. That's just how it is, my friend.
I've only given blood twice recently, so maybe I'm jumping the gun, but I really think I've figured out how to have the most socially awkward fun at blood drives. The key is to wait until the last couple hours of the blood drive. That way all the people working at the blood drive are tired and starting to get loopy. Now, please don't misunderstand. They're still doing their jobs well. I seriously doubt they got my blood mixed up with another person's blood or anything like that. They just started acting a little silly and saying whatever came into their heads. And sometimes that was awkward.
For instance, there was this really nice, seemingly normal lady (RNSNL for short) who came to help me get situated on my
Anyway, so RNSNL helped me get on the table and put one of those tourniquet things on my arm, all the while asking if there was anything she could do to make me more comfortable. The first thought that came into my head was, "Well, yes, you could stop cutting off the circulation in my arm," but I figured that was kind of necessary. Then she gasped. I immediately looked at my arm, then at her, then at my arm again, expecting to see my own blood gushing out from somewhere. But no needle had touched my skin at that point. No, RNSNL was gazing in awe at my arm, as if she had never seen veins before.
"Your veins are exciting!" she exclaimed. "I never thought I'd say that a person's veins are exciting!"
I gave her a courtesy laugh and thought to myself, "Hmm, I never thought I'd hear you say that, either."
"Your veins are just SO exciting!" she said again. Then she went off and left me to squeeze a plastic handle in order to excite my veins even more.
A few minutes later, another completely different RNSNL, who was standing by the side of another
So I laughed and tried to reassure the second RNSNL. "Don't worry," I said. "My skin changes color." She looked uncertain, so for some inexplicable reason, I added, "I'm a chameleon."
The second RNSNL didn't laugh. I don't blame her. But before she left to return to her
Obviously, I should find a plebotomist (there's your vocab word for the day) convention and start charging admission. "Twenty dollars! Twenty dollars to see the girl with the exciting, pretty veins! And also, I'm a chameleon!"
I was kind of hoping that Hot Guy would come by and notice my veins, but apparently he's a leg man.
Well, the first RNSNL finally got back with me. She started rubbing my arm down with iodine, all the while muttering about what a blessing my veins were. Then she did the necessary needle jabbing and left me to bleed in a baggy. I'm telling you. You haven't lived until you've seen your own blood in a baggy.
Five minutes later, I had the two RNSNLs rush to my side and start frantically clipping things. Apparently, they weren't ready for me to be done. The second RNSNL said, "Girl, you are too fast for us. You're a quick bleeder!" The first RNSNL said, "Oh, what a blessing!"
Seriously, these people need a vacation. I mean, I do try to bleed fast. I kind of like rushing through that whole "there's a needle up my arm" thing. But they were acting like they had just won the blood donor lottery or something. I guess if I'm this awesome at giving blood, I really should do it more often.
Then, for whatever reason, the two RNSNLs left me all alone to hold my arm up above my head. It was while I was in this ridiculous position when Hot Guy finally approached me. He tenderly wrapped my arm in red stretchy gauze, all the while talking to one of the RNSNLs about how his girlfriend made crappy lasagna. Frankly, I was getting mixed signals. Was Hot Guy trying to hint that he had a girlfriend and wasn't interested in picking up chicks at a blood drive, or was he hinting that he would prefer a girlfriend with great veins who also made great lasagna? Either way, he didn't mention my obviously spectacular veins, and I figured that a blood drive really would be a horrible place for a guy to pick up chicks.
Unless you happen to be a vampire. But then picking up chicks might have a-whole-nudder meaning.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
You Say "Obsessed" Like It's a Bad Thing (Part Two: RPGs)
Before continuing with this obsession blog series (that is going to end with this part, because I realized after the fact that it's a really stupid idea), I'd like to apologize. First, because the first part of this was long and boring. Second, because I haven't written a socially awkward blog post in over a week! I have excuses and explanations for this, but really, no one cares. I think that might actually be my next SAA blog: No one cares. I don't promise it will be the most hilarious thing ever, but it stands a good chance of being funnier than the food obsession blog, and it's guaranteed to be funnier than personally getting hit by a bus.
Right.
So.
I'm not usually allowed to play computer games.
I'm 31 years old, so it's not like I have to have parental permission to play computer games. My roommate owns the computer on which I am typing, and I'm sure she wouldn't appreciate me using it to play computer games, but she doesn't have any specific rules.
The person who doesn't allow me to play computer games (usually) is ME.
The reason I'm not allowed to play computer games is because I'm the sort of person who forgets to eat, forgets to sleep, forgets to live in the REAL world while she's playing computer games. Now, we're not talking solitaire. I can play a 2 minute game of cards without getting caught up in the wild, wild card flippin' action. In fact, solitaire and repetitive games like that are sometimes good for me because they give my eyes and hands something easy to do while my brain is busy inventing stories and working out plot details--or else just working out details of my crazy crazy life.
If the game has a plot. If the game has a story line. If the game has an objective that requires pretending I'm another person in a new set of circumstances, forgedduhboudit. I'm a goner. I can't play these games without getting absolutely addicted.
I know this because I spent probably a couple years of my life playing different role playing games (RPGs) on the computer. I didn't get into the card games such as Dungeons and Dragons, but man oh man, I was into some of the similar type computer games. I was all about fake questing it as a Ranger or an Enchanter, traveling with a "party" of fake people through mystical realms, fighting creatures and learning new mad skills. Friends? Social life? Adequate sleep? Who needed such things!? I just gained 302 experience points by killing a giant spider! Woo Hoo! Dream big!
I even got way into those text based adventure games. Remember those? Zork? The Colossal Cave? No graphix? No problem! "--Hit troll." "-What do you want to hit the troll with?" "--Hit troll with sword." "-You hit the troll with the Splendid Sword. The Troll eats you. You have died." Oh, I love those things. They're so 80's-riffic, but it turns out that people still write them. They still have a following. In fact, I want to write one, but since I'm not allowed to play them anymore, that dream will probably never come true. But I'm getting ahead of myself...
Yeah. Eventually I realized how pathetic I had become in my RPGaddiction obsession problem fascination. And I realized that I had to do something drastic or I'd end up living in my parents' house forever so I could not work and still support my gaming habit. Okay, so I believe my parents actually love me more than that--if I hadn't kicked the habit myself, they would have kicked it for me--by kicking my butt out the front door and making me get a job. Instead, I kicked myself out by going back to school. Because I wanted an education that didn't involve beating up zombies.
Only, I have a small confession. Sometimes I play this game called Plants VS. Zombies. And sometimes I still beat up zombies. It's not an RPG, so I can play a level and stop (ANYTIME I WANT, I TELL YOU!). I can resume my real life, which is mostly zombie free.
It's just that sometimes, when life turns into a monotonous series of actions, I find myself reminiscing those RPG days. I go to work and stop a kid from crying. 38 experience points. I swat the elusive fly that's been buzzing around the kitchen for three days. 107 experience points. I manage to find an hour to write in the middle of a day that's packed with 2-3 jobs. 203 experience points. I go grocery shopping. 432 experience points. I successfully pick up/drop off all three kids to whatever soccer practice or after school activity they have without going absolutely bonkers. 3,598 experience points.
I'm well on my way to gaining a new level and getting some more attribute points to spend! Hmm...I think I could use a little more wisdom.
Right.
So.
I'm not usually allowed to play computer games.
I'm 31 years old, so it's not like I have to have parental permission to play computer games. My roommate owns the computer on which I am typing, and I'm sure she wouldn't appreciate me using it to play computer games, but she doesn't have any specific rules.
The person who doesn't allow me to play computer games (usually) is ME.
The reason I'm not allowed to play computer games is because I'm the sort of person who forgets to eat, forgets to sleep, forgets to live in the REAL world while she's playing computer games. Now, we're not talking solitaire. I can play a 2 minute game of cards without getting caught up in the wild, wild card flippin' action. In fact, solitaire and repetitive games like that are sometimes good for me because they give my eyes and hands something easy to do while my brain is busy inventing stories and working out plot details--or else just working out details of my crazy crazy life.
If the game has a plot. If the game has a story line. If the game has an objective that requires pretending I'm another person in a new set of circumstances, forgedduhboudit. I'm a goner. I can't play these games without getting absolutely addicted.
I know this because I spent probably a couple years of my life playing different role playing games (RPGs) on the computer. I didn't get into the card games such as Dungeons and Dragons, but man oh man, I was into some of the similar type computer games. I was all about fake questing it as a Ranger or an Enchanter, traveling with a "party" of fake people through mystical realms, fighting creatures and learning new mad skills. Friends? Social life? Adequate sleep? Who needed such things!? I just gained 302 experience points by killing a giant spider! Woo Hoo! Dream big!
I even got way into those text based adventure games. Remember those? Zork? The Colossal Cave? No graphix? No problem! "--Hit troll." "-What do you want to hit the troll with?" "--Hit troll with sword." "-You hit the troll with the Splendid Sword. The Troll eats you. You have died." Oh, I love those things. They're so 80's-riffic, but it turns out that people still write them. They still have a following. In fact, I want to write one, but since I'm not allowed to play them anymore, that dream will probably never come true. But I'm getting ahead of myself...
Yeah. Eventually I realized how pathetic I had become in my RPG
Only, I have a small confession. Sometimes I play this game called Plants VS. Zombies. And sometimes I still beat up zombies. It's not an RPG, so I can play a level and stop (ANYTIME I WANT, I TELL YOU!). I can resume my real life, which is mostly zombie free.
It's just that sometimes, when life turns into a monotonous series of actions, I find myself reminiscing those RPG days. I go to work and stop a kid from crying. 38 experience points. I swat the elusive fly that's been buzzing around the kitchen for three days. 107 experience points. I manage to find an hour to write in the middle of a day that's packed with 2-3 jobs. 203 experience points. I go grocery shopping. 432 experience points. I successfully pick up/drop off all three kids to whatever soccer practice or after school activity they have without going absolutely bonkers. 3,598 experience points.
I'm well on my way to gaining a new level and getting some more attribute points to spend! Hmm...I think I could use a little more wisdom.
Monday, September 12, 2011
SAA Ep.# 49: You Say "Obsession" Like It's a Bad Thing (Part One: FOOD)
One of my biggest pet peeves is when a person asks me how I'm doing, and when I reply that I'm "fine" or "okay," the person immediately asks why I'm "just fine" or "just okay," as if there's something horrifically wrong if I'm not "SUPER DUPER!" or something. The reason for this is that when I'm doing "fine" or "okay," it's actually a very, very good thing.
I don't think I'm manic-depressive/bipolar or anything that extreme, but my emotional range tends to be, shall we say, kind of dramatic. When I'm happy, I'm not just happy, I'm OH-MY-GOSH-THIS-IS-THE-GREATEST-DAY-OF-MY-LIFE-CAN'T-YOU-JUST-SMELL-THE-SUNSHINE-AND-FEEL-THE-FLOWERS-AND-SEE-THE-BIRDS-SING-AND-HEAR-THE-RAINBOWS-WHY-CAN'T-I-JUST-BUY-EVERYONE-A-GAZBILLION-STRAWBERRY-SCENTED-PUPPIES sort of happy. When I'm sad, I'm not just sad, I'm I-HATE-EVERYTHING-SO-GO-AWAY-AND-JUST-LET-ME-LAY-IN-BED-ALL-DAY-AND-EAT-UNHEALTHY-FOOD-UNTIL-I-EXPLODE-TO-DEATH-AND-TAKE-THE-REST-OF-THIS-WRETCHED-WRETCHED-WORLD-OUT-WITH-ME sort of sad. The good thing about these emotional extremes is that they don't seem to last very long, and I can go from the depths of despair to the awesomest of happies within, oh, about ten minutes. So, I've learned not to rely on emotions a whole lot.
I try to aim for a nice even emotional state, which is what most people call "fine" or "okay." "Fine" and "okay" are safe. They don't depress anyone, nor do they scare people. So I aim for being fine, because someone as overly passionate as I am needs to be "just okay" sometimes. Or most of the time.
I've also learned that I need to keep a pretty close watch on my hobbies and interests. Since I do have a tendency to be overly passionate, I rarely just like things. I become obsessed with them. Since I've been obsessed with quite a few things, I'm going to split this SAA Episode into two or three (or possibly four) parts. For the remainder of this part, I'm going to talk about one of my biggest obsessions.
Most of my obsessions are food related, and I'm actually pretty convinced I have a food addiction. Please understand, I'm not making light of eating disorders. I was a psychology minor, so I am well aware that eating disorders can be very serious. I think I might even have a minor compulsive overeating problem. So when I say that I have a food addiction, I'm being serious. It's something I've struggled with my whole life (when I was a teenager, I used to eat until I was full and then go take alka-seltzer so I could burp and eat some more...which is really sick, now that I think about it). It's just that I tend to see the humor in everything, which includes my own personal eating habits. I'm not picking on anyone here besides myself.
And I find it slightly ironic that with food addictions, you can't just go cold turkey (unless that means you're on some kind of weird cold turkey diet). With drug or alcohol addictions, a person who overcomes the addiction often must completely abstain from the drug or alcohol. You can't do that with food. If you stop eating, you eventually die. So I've had to be super-disciplined in my eating habits, and that's hard.
Cuz I like food.
I think my top ten food obsessions are as follows (in no particular order):
1) Chocolate. If I have to explain why, then you'll never understand.
2) White Tic Tacs. I've managed to cut back to about 2 packs a week. I keep these in the car and eat about twenty of them when I come to a red light. I've often wondered if other drivers get concerned when they see me popping these little white pill shaped objects. It probably does look suspicious, but I can't help myself. I just can't get enough of their minty goodness. They're even better in the spring/summer months because when they heat up in my car, it brings out this amazing warm vanilla flavor that contrasts just perfectly with the cool mint. Shut the front door! They're amazing. Plus, I have fresh mint breath ALL the time.
3) Cookies. Again, if I have to explain why, then you'll never understand.
4) Cupcakes. See 1 and 3.
5) Autumn Mix. Oh, sweet Moses! It's a good thing this stuff only comes out in the autumn, or I'd be a much fatter person. There's something oddly addictive about the little white, yellow, and orange candy corns combined with the brown and orange candy corns that taste as if they once brushed up against something that might have been made out of a vaguely chocolatey substance. Add in those sugar-coma inducing mallowcreme pumpkins, and you've got a recipe for made-with-real-honey (really, is that the healthiest claim you can make?) amazingness.
6) Pasta. This. This is the reason I could never go low-carb. I'm not a huge bread eater. I'm not big on cereal. But I have to have my pasta, or I will hurt someone.
7) Cheese. Is life without cheese even worth living? Sometimes I think about how much I like cheese, and it makes me want to cry tears of joy. Thank you, whoever thought of making something tasty out of old milk.
8) Raspberries/Blueberries. Raspberries were my favorite berry for years, but now they actually are tied with blueberries. The fact that I have a favorite berry competition going on in my head should tell you something about me. I'm not sure what it should tell you, but it should tell you something.
9) Ice cream. See 1, 3, and 4. And 9. I think my favorite kind is Neapolitan b/c you get three, three, three flavors in one!
10) Pumpkin Pie. Include this one with numbers 3 and 5, and you might have an idea as to why I typically gain 10 pounds near Thanksgiving and Christmas. I think pumpkin pie is my favorite dessert--even if you consider all the desserts made from chocolate. Seriously. A nice chilled piece of pumpkin pie with a huge dollop of Cool Whip might be the closest thing to heaven on earth. It's so good, it'll make you wanna slap your mama.
And lest you think I'm done, my honorable mentions for food obsessions include: toast (I'm not a huge bread fan, but burning bread makes it taste a kazmillion times better. I don't know why, but it does), sunflower seeds, Greek yogurt, Rice Krispies Treats, tomatoes, oatmeal creme pies, Quaker Life Bars (they call them Life bars b/c you can live off them...and b/c they're made from Life cereal), Cream Cheese, green beans, dill pickles (I'm pretty sure I once ate a whole jar of these in my sleep), rockamole, peanut butter, white chocolate covered pretzels, muffins, cilantro (what do you mean I'm not supposed to put it in EVERYTHING??), Krispy Kreme Raspberry Jelly Filled Donuts, grilled chicken, Goldfish Colors! (I'm dead serious--the natural dye (beet juice) they use in the purple goldfish makes them taste even better than the boring gold goldfish), gingersnaps, s'mores, pizza, green olives, mushrooms, pita chips and hummus, dried fruit, applesauce, turkey bacon, jalepeno cheddar poppers, Nutella, key lime pie (...or any kind of pie, really), almonds, and of course, Swiss Cake Rolls.
...to be continued.
I don't think I'm manic-depressive/bipolar or anything that extreme, but my emotional range tends to be, shall we say, kind of dramatic. When I'm happy, I'm not just happy, I'm OH-MY-GOSH-THIS-IS-THE-GREATEST-DAY-OF-MY-LIFE-CAN'T-YOU-JUST-SMELL-THE-SUNSHINE-AND-FEEL-THE-FLOWERS-AND-SEE-THE-BIRDS-SING-AND-HEAR-THE-RAINBOWS-WHY-CAN'T-I-JUST-BUY-EVERYONE-A-GAZBILLION-STRAWBERRY-SCENTED-PUPPIES sort of happy. When I'm sad, I'm not just sad, I'm I-HATE-EVERYTHING-SO-GO-AWAY-AND-JUST-LET-ME-LAY-IN-BED-ALL-DAY-AND-EAT-UNHEALTHY-FOOD-UNTIL-I-EXPLODE-TO-DEATH-AND-TAKE-THE-REST-OF-THIS-WRETCHED-WRETCHED-WORLD-OUT-WITH-ME sort of sad. The good thing about these emotional extremes is that they don't seem to last very long, and I can go from the depths of despair to the awesomest of happies within, oh, about ten minutes. So, I've learned not to rely on emotions a whole lot.
I try to aim for a nice even emotional state, which is what most people call "fine" or "okay." "Fine" and "okay" are safe. They don't depress anyone, nor do they scare people. So I aim for being fine, because someone as overly passionate as I am needs to be "just okay" sometimes. Or most of the time.
I've also learned that I need to keep a pretty close watch on my hobbies and interests. Since I do have a tendency to be overly passionate, I rarely just like things. I become obsessed with them. Since I've been obsessed with quite a few things, I'm going to split this SAA Episode into two or three (or possibly four) parts. For the remainder of this part, I'm going to talk about one of my biggest obsessions.
Most of my obsessions are food related, and I'm actually pretty convinced I have a food addiction. Please understand, I'm not making light of eating disorders. I was a psychology minor, so I am well aware that eating disorders can be very serious. I think I might even have a minor compulsive overeating problem. So when I say that I have a food addiction, I'm being serious. It's something I've struggled with my whole life (when I was a teenager, I used to eat until I was full and then go take alka-seltzer so I could burp and eat some more...which is really sick, now that I think about it). It's just that I tend to see the humor in everything, which includes my own personal eating habits. I'm not picking on anyone here besides myself.
And I find it slightly ironic that with food addictions, you can't just go cold turkey (unless that means you're on some kind of weird cold turkey diet). With drug or alcohol addictions, a person who overcomes the addiction often must completely abstain from the drug or alcohol. You can't do that with food. If you stop eating, you eventually die. So I've had to be super-disciplined in my eating habits, and that's hard.
Cuz I like food.
I think my top ten food obsessions are as follows (in no particular order):
1) Chocolate. If I have to explain why, then you'll never understand.
2) White Tic Tacs. I've managed to cut back to about 2 packs a week. I keep these in the car and eat about twenty of them when I come to a red light. I've often wondered if other drivers get concerned when they see me popping these little white pill shaped objects. It probably does look suspicious, but I can't help myself. I just can't get enough of their minty goodness. They're even better in the spring/summer months because when they heat up in my car, it brings out this amazing warm vanilla flavor that contrasts just perfectly with the cool mint. Shut the front door! They're amazing. Plus, I have fresh mint breath ALL the time.
3) Cookies. Again, if I have to explain why, then you'll never understand.
4) Cupcakes. See 1 and 3.
5) Autumn Mix. Oh, sweet Moses! It's a good thing this stuff only comes out in the autumn, or I'd be a much fatter person. There's something oddly addictive about the little white, yellow, and orange candy corns combined with the brown and orange candy corns that taste as if they once brushed up against something that might have been made out of a vaguely chocolatey substance. Add in those sugar-coma inducing mallowcreme pumpkins, and you've got a recipe for made-with-real-honey (really, is that the healthiest claim you can make?) amazingness.
6) Pasta. This. This is the reason I could never go low-carb. I'm not a huge bread eater. I'm not big on cereal. But I have to have my pasta, or I will hurt someone.
7) Cheese. Is life without cheese even worth living? Sometimes I think about how much I like cheese, and it makes me want to cry tears of joy. Thank you, whoever thought of making something tasty out of old milk.
8) Raspberries/Blueberries. Raspberries were my favorite berry for years, but now they actually are tied with blueberries. The fact that I have a favorite berry competition going on in my head should tell you something about me. I'm not sure what it should tell you, but it should tell you something.
9) Ice cream. See 1, 3, and 4. And 9. I think my favorite kind is Neapolitan b/c you get three, three, three flavors in one!
10) Pumpkin Pie. Include this one with numbers 3 and 5, and you might have an idea as to why I typically gain 10 pounds near Thanksgiving and Christmas. I think pumpkin pie is my favorite dessert--even if you consider all the desserts made from chocolate. Seriously. A nice chilled piece of pumpkin pie with a huge dollop of Cool Whip might be the closest thing to heaven on earth. It's so good, it'll make you wanna slap your mama.
And lest you think I'm done, my honorable mentions for food obsessions include: toast (I'm not a huge bread fan, but burning bread makes it taste a kazmillion times better. I don't know why, but it does), sunflower seeds, Greek yogurt, Rice Krispies Treats, tomatoes, oatmeal creme pies, Quaker Life Bars (they call them Life bars b/c you can live off them...and b/c they're made from Life cereal), Cream Cheese, green beans, dill pickles (I'm pretty sure I once ate a whole jar of these in my sleep), rockamole, peanut butter, white chocolate covered pretzels, muffins, cilantro (what do you mean I'm not supposed to put it in EVERYTHING??), Krispy Kreme Raspberry Jelly Filled Donuts, grilled chicken, Goldfish Colors! (I'm dead serious--the natural dye (beet juice) they use in the purple goldfish makes them taste even better than the boring gold goldfish), gingersnaps, s'mores, pizza, green olives, mushrooms, pita chips and hummus, dried fruit, applesauce, turkey bacon, jalepeno cheddar poppers, Nutella, key lime pie (...or any kind of pie, really), almonds, and of course, Swiss Cake Rolls.
...to be continued.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Embarrassing Confession #7: Friends in Low Places
After only a few minutes of consideration (all that was needed), I have come to the conclusion that the vast majority of my friends are under the age of 7.
At least I'm actually taller than most of them.
I'm like...Gigantor! RAR!
At least I'm actually taller than most of them.
I'm like...Gigantor! RAR!
Sunday, September 4, 2011
SAA Ep.# 48: The Case for Contacts
When I was sixteen, my life was forever changed. Did I fall in love? Did I discover what I wanted to do with the rest of my life? Did I get crowned Homecoming Queen? Did I invent Silly Putty? Did I discover Australia? No.
I got contact lenses.
I'm nearsighted. That's probably an understatement. I'm terribly nearsighted, tremendously myopic, and practically blind without the aid of prescription lenses. Without my glasses/contacts, I can't even see the words on this screen from more than four inches away. I've been this way for most of my life. I was that kid in first grade with coke bottle glasses. And I guess I was cute, except for my parents decided I also needed a boy haircut since neither they nor I wanted to take care of my long princess hair. Yeah, from 1st grade to 5th grade or so, I looked like a boy. With four eyes.
And even when I started looking more like a girl, my glasses covered up my eyes. I was pale, short, overweight, with a big nose and pointy chin. The only redeemable traits I had were my hair (which I still didn't know how to take care of, so it was pretty much a big poofy mess most of the time--actually, that's still a fairly accurate description), and my eyes. And no one could see my eyes because I still wore these ginormous 90's glasses. And I'm pretty sure that while they were not at all the main factor, my glasses contributed greatly to my lack of popularity.
Hmm...with my poofy hair and big glasses, I imagine I looked a lot like a fatter version of Professor Trelawney from Harry Potter. "You have...the GRIM!"
Speaking of books, in my favorite book by Madeleine L'Engle, A Wrinkle in Time, the main character, Meg Murray, also wears glasses. And one of my favorite scenes in this book is one of the more romantic ones, where unpopular and awkward 14-year-old Meg goes for a walk in the vegetable garden with popular and athletic Calvin O'Keefe. She's crying because of some of the other issues in the book, and he takes off her glasses and wipes away her tears. Then he says something I really like, because (and don't tell anyone this, because it's a well-kept secret) I'm sappy. He says, "You know what? You've got dreamboat eyes. Listen, you go right on wearing your glasses. I don't think I want anybody else to see what gorgeous eyes you have." Aww.
And I think that I kind of expected to find a Calvin O'Keefe when I was fourteen--a guy who realized I had "dreamboat eyes" behind my glasses and didn't want anyone else to see them. Meh. Not so much. Calvin O'Keefe never told me I had dreamboat eyes, just like Samwise Gamgee never noticed I wore ribbons in my Professor Trelawney hair. Stupid fictional boys! So I figured I'd take matters into my own hands and get contacts so that EVERYONE could see my eyes (and keep wearing ribbons in my hair, just because I like them. Take that Rosie Cotton!). One catch. Mom and Dad didn't want me to get contacts yet.
But finally, the summer before I turned seventeen Mom and Dad let me get contact lenses, and everything changed. I really believed that only my appearance would benefit from the new contact lenses, and I think my eye doctor realized this. He even told me that he didn't expect I'd keep wearing them. He said I'd go back to glasses because "glasses give you a sharper image and are easier to take care of."
He was wrong, but I didn't know that yet.
I must admit that vanity is what brought me to contacts, but as soon as I placed those contacts in my eyes for the very first time, everything started to change.
I had been wearing glasses for a decade at that point--since I was six years old. When I put those contact lenses in, I realized something. I realized something wonderful. I could see out of the corners of my eyes. For the first time in a decade, really the first time in my entire memory, I had peripheral vision. Glasses could not give me that because they only went in front of my eyes. At that time, I knew. I knew I was never going back.
My eyes are pretty sensitive. They hate too much light and I have to wear sunglasses all the time outside, even if it's rainy. They also don't like it when something is in them that's not supposed to be. It took me SIX MONTHS before I could convince my eyes that the contacts were supposed to be there. I looked like I was crying for six months because my eyes were trying to get rid of the little plasticy things. But I was determined to get used to them, and get used to them I did. Yes, it was because of my vanity. Yes, it was because I discovered that I really kinda sorta liked having clear peripheral vision. It was also because contact lenses don't fog up, get rain splatters or fingerprint smudges on them, they don't slide down my nose, and they don't get in the way of my sunglasses (Easier to take care of?! Sharper image?! No way, eye doctor man! No way.).
I can put contacts in every morning and forget they're even there. With glasses, I'm always seeing the little frames around my eyes. I see every smudge, every drop of rain. And let me tell you, when working with kids, it's IMPOSSIBLE to keep them from getting their sticky fingers all over my lenses. Glasses are such a pain. I hate them. I hate the way I look in them, and I hate how much fuss they are. And did I mention that I like being able to see out of the corners of my eyes?!
I do wish contact lenses were a little cheaper. I remember the good ol' days before people started throwing their contacts away every few days. I used to get the non-disposable kind that you could wear for like 2 years (I wore my last pair for FIVE years before one of them tore), but apparently they don't make them anymore. I guess it's because people are too lazy to actually clean their contacts now. Sigh. So now I've got the kind you're supposed to wear for two weeks, and my current eye doctor told me, "If you take care of them, you can just throw them away at the end of the month." I wear them for longer than a month, usually. I clean them every night (it's not THAT hard, people) and just wear them until they get so dirty that my vision is worse WITH them than without them.
And for someone with vision as poor as mine, that's really saying something.
I got contact lenses.
I'm nearsighted. That's probably an understatement. I'm terribly nearsighted, tremendously myopic, and practically blind without the aid of prescription lenses. Without my glasses/contacts, I can't even see the words on this screen from more than four inches away. I've been this way for most of my life. I was that kid in first grade with coke bottle glasses. And I guess I was cute, except for my parents decided I also needed a boy haircut since neither they nor I wanted to take care of my long princess hair. Yeah, from 1st grade to 5th grade or so, I looked like a boy. With four eyes.
And even when I started looking more like a girl, my glasses covered up my eyes. I was pale, short, overweight, with a big nose and pointy chin. The only redeemable traits I had were my hair (which I still didn't know how to take care of, so it was pretty much a big poofy mess most of the time--actually, that's still a fairly accurate description), and my eyes. And no one could see my eyes because I still wore these ginormous 90's glasses. And I'm pretty sure that while they were not at all the main factor, my glasses contributed greatly to my lack of popularity.
Hmm...with my poofy hair and big glasses, I imagine I looked a lot like a fatter version of Professor Trelawney from Harry Potter. "You have...the GRIM!"
 |
| ...she might even be more socially awkward than I am, poor thing... |
Speaking of books, in my favorite book by Madeleine L'Engle, A Wrinkle in Time, the main character, Meg Murray, also wears glasses. And one of my favorite scenes in this book is one of the more romantic ones, where unpopular and awkward 14-year-old Meg goes for a walk in the vegetable garden with popular and athletic Calvin O'Keefe. She's crying because of some of the other issues in the book, and he takes off her glasses and wipes away her tears. Then he says something I really like, because (and don't tell anyone this, because it's a well-kept secret) I'm sappy. He says, "You know what? You've got dreamboat eyes. Listen, you go right on wearing your glasses. I don't think I want anybody else to see what gorgeous eyes you have." Aww.
And I think that I kind of expected to find a Calvin O'Keefe when I was fourteen--a guy who realized I had "dreamboat eyes" behind my glasses and didn't want anyone else to see them. Meh. Not so much. Calvin O'Keefe never told me I had dreamboat eyes, just like Samwise Gamgee never noticed I wore ribbons in my Professor Trelawney hair. Stupid fictional boys! So I figured I'd take matters into my own hands and get contacts so that EVERYONE could see my eyes (and keep wearing ribbons in my hair, just because I like them. Take that Rosie Cotton!). One catch. Mom and Dad didn't want me to get contacts yet.
But finally, the summer before I turned seventeen Mom and Dad let me get contact lenses, and everything changed. I really believed that only my appearance would benefit from the new contact lenses, and I think my eye doctor realized this. He even told me that he didn't expect I'd keep wearing them. He said I'd go back to glasses because "glasses give you a sharper image and are easier to take care of."
He was wrong, but I didn't know that yet.
I must admit that vanity is what brought me to contacts, but as soon as I placed those contacts in my eyes for the very first time, everything started to change.
I had been wearing glasses for a decade at that point--since I was six years old. When I put those contact lenses in, I realized something. I realized something wonderful. I could see out of the corners of my eyes. For the first time in a decade, really the first time in my entire memory, I had peripheral vision. Glasses could not give me that because they only went in front of my eyes. At that time, I knew. I knew I was never going back.
My eyes are pretty sensitive. They hate too much light and I have to wear sunglasses all the time outside, even if it's rainy. They also don't like it when something is in them that's not supposed to be. It took me SIX MONTHS before I could convince my eyes that the contacts were supposed to be there. I looked like I was crying for six months because my eyes were trying to get rid of the little plasticy things. But I was determined to get used to them, and get used to them I did. Yes, it was because of my vanity. Yes, it was because I discovered that I really kinda sorta liked having clear peripheral vision. It was also because contact lenses don't fog up, get rain splatters or fingerprint smudges on them, they don't slide down my nose, and they don't get in the way of my sunglasses (Easier to take care of?! Sharper image?! No way, eye doctor man! No way.).
I can put contacts in every morning and forget they're even there. With glasses, I'm always seeing the little frames around my eyes. I see every smudge, every drop of rain. And let me tell you, when working with kids, it's IMPOSSIBLE to keep them from getting their sticky fingers all over my lenses. Glasses are such a pain. I hate them. I hate the way I look in them, and I hate how much fuss they are. And did I mention that I like being able to see out of the corners of my eyes?!
I do wish contact lenses were a little cheaper. I remember the good ol' days before people started throwing their contacts away every few days. I used to get the non-disposable kind that you could wear for like 2 years (I wore my last pair for FIVE years before one of them tore), but apparently they don't make them anymore. I guess it's because people are too lazy to actually clean their contacts now. Sigh. So now I've got the kind you're supposed to wear for two weeks, and my current eye doctor told me, "If you take care of them, you can just throw them away at the end of the month." I wear them for longer than a month, usually. I clean them every night (it's not THAT hard, people) and just wear them until they get so dirty that my vision is worse WITH them than without them.
And for someone with vision as poor as mine, that's really saying something.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Public Service Announcement: When Zombies Attack
In light of recent events in the eastern USA, I feel the need to post a good solid list of emergency plans, you know, just in case an earthquake, hurricane, and zombie attack happen in the same week. I hear you skeptics laughing, saying THAT could never happen, but two out of three DID happen. And who's to say that the zombie attack isn't coming? Maybe the zombies are already here. Maybe you stop reading this blog and go lock your doors. But, seriously, is a locked door going to really stand in the way of a brainz-cravin' zombie? I don't think so. Plus, I really don't want you to stop reading my blog. Ever.
So here it is, my Five Step Zombie Attack Escape Plan.
Step 1: Learn How To Run
Back in February, I started running. Sure, I claimed it was because I got free entry into a 5K to support my boss' tweenage daughter in her self-esteem promoting running group, but that wasn't the real reason. I wanted to get better at running so I'd stand a good chance when the zombies inevitably attacked.
Zombies are relentless. Relentless, I tell you. They want brainz and they're going to stop at nothing to get them. You can't reason with them, and it's not a good idea to try to fight them. There are those who will tell you that zombies can be defeated by fire or axes or a couple solid rounds from a machine gun...or that if you plant a garden of sunflowers, peashooters, and fighting mushrooms you can adequately protect your home (and, subsequently, your brainz) from zombies. Maybe these people had some non-video game type experience that would lead them to believe this. But I'm pretty sure that if the zombies attack, running is the very best option. The zombies may be relentless, but they're not very fast. They kind of...lumber. And moan. While they're lumbering.
I'm not a fast runner and probably never will be, but that doesn't matter. Even the slowest jogging is faster than the zombies' lumbering. So the key to running from the zombies is endurance. You don't have to run all that quickly. You just have to keep it up for a while.
Step 2: Know How to Identify Other Fleeing Runners
In my running experience, I've discovered that there are many different types of runners/joggers/walkers. First, you have the Marathoner. These people know how to run. Through a combination of intense training and mad skillz, they can run very quickly for a long time. These are the people who finish FIRST in marathons, while people like me would just be happy to be able to just finish a HALF marathon at all. These are NOT people you want to befriend in your preparation for the upcoming zombie attack. In fact, you will want to stay away from them at all costs.
Another kind of runner/jogger/walker is the Large Family Group. These are the people who feel the need to take their entire extended family and all their neighbors for a walk at the same time. Imagine the Duggar family taking a leisurely stroll, blocking the entire sidewalk. At first, the Large Family Group seems quite innocent. After all, the Large Family Group is made up of such cute little children with big brown eyes. Do not let them fool you. While there might be safety in numbers, the Large Family Group can be a dangerous obstacle to your flee from the zombie attackers. Use your brainz and plan ahead! If a Large Family Group happens across your path, IMMEDIATELY plan a way around them, taking an alternate route, if possible. Do not find yourself fighting through a Large Family Group, because, as I said, there is safety in numbers. That seemingly sweet, adorable, and loving Large Family Group will feed you to the zombies in a heartbeat, just so they will have more time to escape.
Another kind of runner/jogger/walker is the Chatty Cathy. You know the type. They pass you on the sidewalk and feel the need to say something friendly and witty to you. Do they notice that you're running, out of breath, unable to utter an intelligible reply? Probably. They just want to lure you into a false sense of security as they start running alongside you. While it might seem like a good idea to make allies in the zombie attack, this is not the type of ally you want. If another runner has enough breath to attempt to carry on a conversation while running, then I suspect they are a Marathoner in disguise. And Marathoners are to be avoided at all costs.
Then there are runners like me. I'll call my type of runner the Wannabe Marathoner. I suspect most people who call themselves runners fall into this category. We aren't too fast and never will be. We just know how to run quickly enough to beat the zombies, and we know how to keep it up for a while. It might be a good idea to find another Wannabe Marathoner to be an ally in the event of a zombie attack, but there are better options.
The last two types of runners/joggers/walkers are the Sprinters and the Walkers. The sprinters can run, but only in short bursts. They usually aren't even all that fast. Most of them are able to run for a very short distance (not even half a mile) before they run out of steam. While this might save them from the zombies, for a time, their lack of endurance is bound to exhaust them, leaving them at the mercy of the zombies.
The Walkers are those who can't even run and don't want to try. Speed walking is their only defense, but you never know if those zombies know how to speed lumber. And moan.
Step 3: Form an Alliance With Someone Who Runs Slower than You
If you're a Large Family Group, then move along. You don't need to form an alliance. You ARE an alliance! If you're a Marathoner or a Chatty Cathy, then you have a lot of options. If you're a Wannabe Marathoner, then you'd better stick with a Sprinter (preferably a slow Sprinter) or a Walker. If you are a Sprinter or a Walker, then immediately proceed to Step 5, because Step 4 will only make you sad.
Step 4: Feed Your Ally* to the Zombies
Running with people slower than you is a great idea. If the zombies get too close, a well timed trip or push will send your ally and his/her brainz into the clutches of the zombies, thus giving you time to escape and form more deceitful alliances.
*Large Family Groups, your best bet is to catch a runner who doesn't know he/she should try to run around you. Use your childrens' epic cuteness powers to lure runners into your midst. Once a lone runner (or two) is there, surround them and wait for the opportune time. When the zombies come, you'll know what to do.
Step 5: Red Jello
There's nothing zombies love better than some tasty, tasty brainz. In fact, there's nothing zombies like at all other than some tasty, tasty brainz. So run. But if for some reason, the zombies still catch you, it's still not a good idea to fight. I mean, sure, a chainsaw MIGHT hold them off a bit, but how practical is it to carry a chainsaw whilst running from zombies? Seriously. You watch too many movies.
Instead, you should always carry with you a small disposable container of red jello. Zombies are relentless, hungry, and just plain mean, but they're also quite stupid. The average zombie doesn't know the difference between brainz and red jello until it eats said red jello. Tossing red jello into the midst of a group of zombies that is trying to eat your brainz might confuse them just long enough for you to make an escape. And if the zombies DON'T catch you, hey...you've got yourself a bowl of delicious red jello! Enjoy!
DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT attempt this with any other jello color or flavor. Zombies are dumb, but they know the difference between green jello and brainz, okay? Okay.
So there you have it, my Five Step Zombie Attack Escape Plan. Feel free to distribute this to your friends, as long as you give me proper credit. I mean, a socially awkward super hero deserves some props.
So here it is, my Five Step Zombie Attack Escape Plan.
Step 1: Learn How To Run
Back in February, I started running. Sure, I claimed it was because I got free entry into a 5K to support my boss' tweenage daughter in her self-esteem promoting running group, but that wasn't the real reason. I wanted to get better at running so I'd stand a good chance when the zombies inevitably attacked.
Zombies are relentless. Relentless, I tell you. They want brainz and they're going to stop at nothing to get them. You can't reason with them, and it's not a good idea to try to fight them. There are those who will tell you that zombies can be defeated by fire or axes or a couple solid rounds from a machine gun...or that if you plant a garden of sunflowers, peashooters, and fighting mushrooms you can adequately protect your home (and, subsequently, your brainz) from zombies. Maybe these people had some non-video game type experience that would lead them to believe this. But I'm pretty sure that if the zombies attack, running is the very best option. The zombies may be relentless, but they're not very fast. They kind of...lumber. And moan. While they're lumbering.
I'm not a fast runner and probably never will be, but that doesn't matter. Even the slowest jogging is faster than the zombies' lumbering. So the key to running from the zombies is endurance. You don't have to run all that quickly. You just have to keep it up for a while.
Step 2: Know How to Identify Other Fleeing Runners
In my running experience, I've discovered that there are many different types of runners/joggers/walkers. First, you have the Marathoner. These people know how to run. Through a combination of intense training and mad skillz, they can run very quickly for a long time. These are the people who finish FIRST in marathons, while people like me would just be happy to be able to just finish a HALF marathon at all. These are NOT people you want to befriend in your preparation for the upcoming zombie attack. In fact, you will want to stay away from them at all costs.
Another kind of runner/jogger/walker is the Large Family Group. These are the people who feel the need to take their entire extended family and all their neighbors for a walk at the same time. Imagine the Duggar family taking a leisurely stroll, blocking the entire sidewalk. At first, the Large Family Group seems quite innocent. After all, the Large Family Group is made up of such cute little children with big brown eyes. Do not let them fool you. While there might be safety in numbers, the Large Family Group can be a dangerous obstacle to your flee from the zombie attackers. Use your brainz and plan ahead! If a Large Family Group happens across your path, IMMEDIATELY plan a way around them, taking an alternate route, if possible. Do not find yourself fighting through a Large Family Group, because, as I said, there is safety in numbers. That seemingly sweet, adorable, and loving Large Family Group will feed you to the zombies in a heartbeat, just so they will have more time to escape.
Another kind of runner/jogger/walker is the Chatty Cathy. You know the type. They pass you on the sidewalk and feel the need to say something friendly and witty to you. Do they notice that you're running, out of breath, unable to utter an intelligible reply? Probably. They just want to lure you into a false sense of security as they start running alongside you. While it might seem like a good idea to make allies in the zombie attack, this is not the type of ally you want. If another runner has enough breath to attempt to carry on a conversation while running, then I suspect they are a Marathoner in disguise. And Marathoners are to be avoided at all costs.
Then there are runners like me. I'll call my type of runner the Wannabe Marathoner. I suspect most people who call themselves runners fall into this category. We aren't too fast and never will be. We just know how to run quickly enough to beat the zombies, and we know how to keep it up for a while. It might be a good idea to find another Wannabe Marathoner to be an ally in the event of a zombie attack, but there are better options.
The last two types of runners/joggers/walkers are the Sprinters and the Walkers. The sprinters can run, but only in short bursts. They usually aren't even all that fast. Most of them are able to run for a very short distance (not even half a mile) before they run out of steam. While this might save them from the zombies, for a time, their lack of endurance is bound to exhaust them, leaving them at the mercy of the zombies.
The Walkers are those who can't even run and don't want to try. Speed walking is their only defense, but you never know if those zombies know how to speed lumber. And moan.
Step 3: Form an Alliance With Someone Who Runs Slower than You
If you're a Large Family Group, then move along. You don't need to form an alliance. You ARE an alliance! If you're a Marathoner or a Chatty Cathy, then you have a lot of options. If you're a Wannabe Marathoner, then you'd better stick with a Sprinter (preferably a slow Sprinter) or a Walker. If you are a Sprinter or a Walker, then immediately proceed to Step 5, because Step 4 will only make you sad.
Step 4: Feed Your Ally* to the Zombies
Running with people slower than you is a great idea. If the zombies get too close, a well timed trip or push will send your ally and his/her brainz into the clutches of the zombies, thus giving you time to escape and form more deceitful alliances.
*Large Family Groups, your best bet is to catch a runner who doesn't know he/she should try to run around you. Use your childrens' epic cuteness powers to lure runners into your midst. Once a lone runner (or two) is there, surround them and wait for the opportune time. When the zombies come, you'll know what to do.
Step 5: Red Jello
There's nothing zombies love better than some tasty, tasty brainz. In fact, there's nothing zombies like at all other than some tasty, tasty brainz. So run. But if for some reason, the zombies still catch you, it's still not a good idea to fight. I mean, sure, a chainsaw MIGHT hold them off a bit, but how practical is it to carry a chainsaw whilst running from zombies? Seriously. You watch too many movies.
Instead, you should always carry with you a small disposable container of red jello. Zombies are relentless, hungry, and just plain mean, but they're also quite stupid. The average zombie doesn't know the difference between brainz and red jello until it eats said red jello. Tossing red jello into the midst of a group of zombies that is trying to eat your brainz might confuse them just long enough for you to make an escape. And if the zombies DON'T catch you, hey...you've got yourself a bowl of delicious red jello! Enjoy!
DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT attempt this with any other jello color or flavor. Zombies are dumb, but they know the difference between green jello and brainz, okay? Okay.
So there you have it, my Five Step Zombie Attack Escape Plan. Feel free to distribute this to your friends, as long as you give me proper credit. I mean, a socially awkward super hero deserves some props.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
SAA Ep. # 47: Shaken, Not Stirred
When I was a really little girl, like so little that I don't remember it anymore and have to rely on my mother to relate the story to me in an embarrassing fashion, I was jumping on the bed with my older sister (who probably put me up to it). We were happily jumping on the bed, when suddenly, the earth started shaking. And according to my mother, my sister and I freaked out because we'd caused an earthquake just by jumping on the bed.
Don't jump on the bed, kids.
Especially not with your shoes on.
Actually, I grew up in central KY, which is apparently in a major seismic zone called the New Madrid. I'm not sure how it got its name, but just hearing "New Madrid" kinda makes me want tacos. Maybe the scientist who named the seismic zone was eating enchiladas or something, and he was like, "Ooh. I should name it after something Spanish. I know! Let's call it El Nino! ...on second thought, nah! No one would EVER name a natural phenomenon THAT! I'll call it...NEW MADRID!" (Just to ruin the mystery and fun, I'll go ahead and let you know that according to Wikipedia, it was named New Madrid because it caused a pretty major earthquake in the early 1800s in New Madrid, Missouri. And New Madrid, Missouri was founded by the Spanish. But I like my enchilada scientist story better. Hmm...Taco Bell is open late, right??)
So, the earthquake that happened when I was so little that I can't remember it? The fault wasn't my sister's or mine. It was the fault of a fault.
I remember back in fifth grade, they kept saying that there was going to be an earthquake. We had about a gazbillion earthquake drills, which involved climbing under our rickety desks, rolling into a ball, and covering our heads with our hands. That would protect us from an earthquake, right?
Oh, public school system of the early 1990s, you were so adorable.
I remember the big day when all the news people and geologists and seismologists and paranoid schizophrenics were telling us that the earthquake was definitely going to strike. There were only thirteen people in class at school that day because about half the parents realized that a crawling under a rickety desk, rolling into a ball, and covering heads with hands was NOT going to protect their child in the event of a major earthquake. My parents probably realized this, but since they were employed by said public school system of the early 1990s, what could they do? I went to school.
And we waited.
And waited.
And waited.
No earthquake. I was relieved. Why? Because they had built up this earthquake to be the biggest, scariest thing ever. It was all the teachers were talking about for weeks and weeks. We had all those drills, all those preparations. It scared all the students half out of their wits.
And it didn't even happen.
I don't live in KY anymore. I live in NC where no one ever really even thinks about earthquakes.
Except, yesterday, there was an earthquake in Virginia, and people down here where I live felt it. Where was I for this major, life altering event?
Walmart.
Or driving home from Walmart.
I remember being at a stop sign, waiting. And I kinda felt my car shake a little. I just assumed that it was my car shaking, because, hey--it does that. It wasn't until I got home and checked facebook that I saw everyone talking about an earthquake.
Dude. I missed it. I wonder if it's pathetic that I'm THIS bummed that I missed out on an earthquake. I have lived through two earthquakes--but I don't remember one of them, and I didn't even feel the second.
Because, let's face it. My car probably really was just shaking.
And, honestly, if I had been home to witness the earthquake, I probably would have just thought it was good old "Jackhammer Man" coming back for more. Jackhammer Man has been coming to pay us a visit quite a bit in the past few days. My apartment building is like 115 years old or something, and for some reason, my landlords thought it couldn't go another year without putting some ventilation of some sort under our floors. So Jackhammer Man has been coming early in the morning to loudly make large gaping holes in the foundation of my apartment.
So if you missed the earthquake and, like me, are bummed out about it, just come pay me a visit some random early Tuesday morning. Maybe Jackhammer Man will come, and we can close our eyes and pretend we're having an earthquake.
A very loud earthquake.
I hear Jackhammer Earthquake Parties are all the rage in Spain. Oh, okay. I just made that up so I could start talking about tacos again. Viva Gorditas! Yo quiero Taco Bell!
Don't jump on the bed, kids.
Especially not with your shoes on.
Actually, I grew up in central KY, which is apparently in a major seismic zone called the New Madrid. I'm not sure how it got its name, but just hearing "New Madrid" kinda makes me want tacos. Maybe the scientist who named the seismic zone was eating enchiladas or something, and he was like, "Ooh. I should name it after something Spanish. I know! Let's call it El Nino! ...on second thought, nah! No one would EVER name a natural phenomenon THAT! I'll call it...NEW MADRID!" (Just to ruin the mystery and fun, I'll go ahead and let you know that according to Wikipedia, it was named New Madrid because it caused a pretty major earthquake in the early 1800s in New Madrid, Missouri. And New Madrid, Missouri was founded by the Spanish. But I like my enchilada scientist story better. Hmm...Taco Bell is open late, right??)
So, the earthquake that happened when I was so little that I can't remember it? The fault wasn't my sister's or mine. It was the fault of a fault.
I remember back in fifth grade, they kept saying that there was going to be an earthquake. We had about a gazbillion earthquake drills, which involved climbing under our rickety desks, rolling into a ball, and covering our heads with our hands. That would protect us from an earthquake, right?
Oh, public school system of the early 1990s, you were so adorable.
I remember the big day when all the news people and geologists and seismologists and paranoid schizophrenics were telling us that the earthquake was definitely going to strike. There were only thirteen people in class at school that day because about half the parents realized that a crawling under a rickety desk, rolling into a ball, and covering heads with hands was NOT going to protect their child in the event of a major earthquake. My parents probably realized this, but since they were employed by said public school system of the early 1990s, what could they do? I went to school.
And we waited.
And waited.
And waited.
No earthquake. I was relieved. Why? Because they had built up this earthquake to be the biggest, scariest thing ever. It was all the teachers were talking about for weeks and weeks. We had all those drills, all those preparations. It scared all the students half out of their wits.
And it didn't even happen.
I don't live in KY anymore. I live in NC where no one ever really even thinks about earthquakes.
Except, yesterday, there was an earthquake in Virginia, and people down here where I live felt it. Where was I for this major, life altering event?
Walmart.
Or driving home from Walmart.
I remember being at a stop sign, waiting. And I kinda felt my car shake a little. I just assumed that it was my car shaking, because, hey--it does that. It wasn't until I got home and checked facebook that I saw everyone talking about an earthquake.
Dude. I missed it. I wonder if it's pathetic that I'm THIS bummed that I missed out on an earthquake. I have lived through two earthquakes--but I don't remember one of them, and I didn't even feel the second.
Because, let's face it. My car probably really was just shaking.
And, honestly, if I had been home to witness the earthquake, I probably would have just thought it was good old "Jackhammer Man" coming back for more. Jackhammer Man has been coming to pay us a visit quite a bit in the past few days. My apartment building is like 115 years old or something, and for some reason, my landlords thought it couldn't go another year without putting some ventilation of some sort under our floors. So Jackhammer Man has been coming early in the morning to loudly make large gaping holes in the foundation of my apartment.
So if you missed the earthquake and, like me, are bummed out about it, just come pay me a visit some random early Tuesday morning. Maybe Jackhammer Man will come, and we can close our eyes and pretend we're having an earthquake.
A very loud earthquake.
I hear Jackhammer Earthquake Parties are all the rage in Spain. Oh, okay. I just made that up so I could start talking about tacos again. Viva Gorditas! Yo quiero Taco Bell!
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