Public Service Announcement: How to Stay Single in Ten Easy Steps

Meet Ruth.

Ruth is single.

How has a gorgeous, talented, and smart (not to mention, humble) young woman like Ruth remained single for all these years?

Hmmm....that's a mystery...

Ah, Ruth has remained single because she has learned the secrets--

The secrets to staying single!

She's going to share these secrets with you...in TEN EASY STEPS!

STEP ONE: Work as much as humanly possible.

Working three or more jobs makes it nearly impossible to have a social or dating life. If you find that you're working all the time and STILL have time for dating, try writing a novel. That will take away every last iota of your free time, making it impossible for you to find time for dating. For added singleness insurance, try working with kids. That way, you get that haggard, unattractive "my kids are driving me crazy" look without actually being a parent.

STEP TWO: Wear a ring that looks suspiciously like a wedding band near (or even on) your left ring finger.

Whether it's a "Purity Ring" or just some weird LOTR obsession, wearing a wedding-band-ish ring will confuse people enough to virtually guarantee your continual singleness. Also, biting your nails and having horrendously dry skin probably helps, too. No one wants to hold THAT unmanicured monstrosity!

STEP THREE: Surround yourself with children so that everyone, including single men/women, will assume you're a mommy/daddy.

(I don't have a cutesy pic for this step because I'm NOT a mommy and don't feel comfortable posting any of the MANY pictures I have of me with someone else's kids.)

If you want to appear as unattractive as possible to all eligible suitors, make sure you always have kids with you. If you aren't a child care provider by trade or don't have any kids to borrow, go rent some kids. There are kid rental places now, right?

And always make sure your facebook profile pic is of you and a kid that looks exactly like you.

STEP FOUR: Don't have mad cooking skills.

A lack of mad cooking skills makes you less desirable. 'Nuff said.

STEP FIVE: Have an imaginary boyfriend/girlfriend.

Whether you're the Captain Jack Sparrow type, the Edward Cullen type, or I don't know...whatever fictional female the boys are into these days... having a fictional significant other makes real potential significant others shy away. I mean, most eligible men and women know that they can't compete with the fictional perfection of a fictional person, so they just give up. And you remain single.

STEP SIX: Be a Grammar Nazi!

Because EVERYONE loves a Grammar Nazi...right? Right? Oh.

STEP SEVEN: Make friends with creatures that usually only exist in fantasy.

People will think you're crazy. Crazy people don't get dates as often as sane people, or so I have heard. I wouldn't know. I've never been sane.

STEP EIGHT: Do weird stuff in public for no apparent reason.

While some people actually appreciate weirdness in other people, it's probably not the best way to make a first impression on any single people who might be watching.

STEP NINE: Actually WANT to get married.

In my experience, nothing scares a single guy more than a woman who wants to get married. So just want to get married, and you'll scare away every single guy within a 100 mile radius.

STEP TEN: Be a socially awkward super hero.

Meh. Works for me.

Socially Awkward Adventures Revisited: Vampires Don't Give Blood

I'm hoping to give blood today, so I thought I'd repost one of my most popular Socially Awkward Adventures that was originally posted in October of 2010. Enjoy...and stay tuned, because I might have more socially awkward adventures to share from today's blood donation!

Vampires Don't Give Blood

Before I say anything else, let me inform readers of the fact that I am about as pale as a human being can get without being an albino. We're talkin' Edward Cullen would KILL (hopefully not literally) for my fair complexion (I even sparkle when I wear body glitter--or don't shave my legs). If you connected all my freckles with a brown magic marker (which, by the way, are not all that magical when you really think about it--false advertisement???), I might actually look like I have a tan of some sort. But my freckles aren't connected; consequently, I look like Casper the Ghost's big sister.

My nickname in middle school was actually "Casper legs." And people wonder why I'm socially awkward...

So about ten years ago or so, I went to a blood drive. I don't particularly LIKE giving blood or anything, but it seems like a nice thing to do since I seem to react pretty well to the blood donor process. I've never passed out or gotten dizzy or anything. I don't have any iron deficiencies. I mean, it kind of sucks (literally and figuratively) when they jab that needle in your arm (all the while telling you that it won't hurt a bit--which isn't entirely or really at all true), but at least you get free Swiss Cake Rolls at the end. All in all, it's not the worst way to spend a half hour.

Only this particular blood drive lasted longer than half an hour. I was in college, living with my parents and commuting two blocks to school--kind of convenient. The blood drive was near the campus, so I figured I could go to class, give blood, and come home. Only there was this ridiculously long line. I waited. I waited some more. When I was the very next person in line, my dad showed up and said, "Um, we're kind of waiting dinner on you, so if you could just hurry home as soon as you get done, that would be great!" I said they could start without me (knowing they wouldn't), because honestly, I was in this whole, "Gee can ya'll stop acting like I'm a member of the family now? I'm a college student!" Now that I'm living on my own, I'd really like someone else to cook for me, but yeah--hindsight is 20-20 and other various cliches.

So I finally get what I've waited over an hour for--that two foot long needle jabbed in my arm by someone who has only had about ten minutes experience finding arteries. I survived the giving of blood. I got a free tshirt or something cool like that. I don't really remember.

What I do remember was sitting down in front of a Sweet Gray Haired Volunteer Lady who handed me that Swiss Cake Roll I'd been waiting for. I ate it hurriedly so I could continue on home to eat dinner with my (as I thought at the time) lame parents. I got up to leave when the Sweet Gray Haired Volunteer Lady (or SGHVL--pronounced "Si-hiv-ul"--the G is totally silent) reached out and grabbed my arm with far more force than believable or necessary.

She looked at me with deathly serious eyes. "You can't leave yet."

It was like an episode of the Twilight Zone. Was she some kind of SGHVL vampire in disguise? Had she lured me there with Swiss Cake Rolls so that she could feast on some of my A positive juice?

"Excuse me?" I asked innocently, because honestly, I had no clue what SGHVL's problem was.

"You can't leave yet," she repeated. "You need to eat something."

"Oh," I said, wondering if SGHVL was suffering from dimentia and had already forgotten that I had JUST scarfed down a Swiss Cake Roll. "I ate enough. I'm good to go."

"No," SGHVL said, increasing the pressure of her grasp. I think it hurt worse than the needle they used to siphon my blood. "You don't look well. You need to eat something else. Sit down and eat."

"I feel fine," I protested, wondering if I had suddenly just broken out in hives or something. "I've given blood a few times before, and I've always been fine afterwards. I don't feel dizzy or anything."

"You don't look well," she repeated. "Eat something."

"I have somewhere I'm supposed to be," I said. "I really need to get going, so if you'll be a nice SGHVL and let go of my arm...."

"You're too pale," she said.

Then I understood. Of course! She didn't understand that I had a severe lack of melanin. I laughed. "Oh, I'm fine. I'm ALWAYS this pale."

She shook her head. "No, dear. No one could POSSIBLY be that pale and still be healthy. You are going to rest here and eat some more until your color returns."

"If we're going to wait until my color returns, we're going to be waiting a while. I never HAD any color."

I kept arguing, but SGHVL would not believe me. She was adamant to keep me there until either my color or Jesus returned.

So I sat down and asked for another Swiss Cake Roll. SGHVL smiled with satsifaction, released my arm, and leaned down to get me another prepackaged chocolate coated sugar rush. As soon as she wasn't looking, I bolted for the door.

It took her a few seconds to realize what was happening. She chased me, but luckily for me, I was 20 and she was probably close to 80. Plus, I had a head start. As I escaped into the parking lot in all of my pale non-dizzy glory, I could hear SGHVL's shrill voice calling out to me in the night, "COME BACK! COME BAAAAAACK!!!"

For all I know, SGHVL could be sitting in a nursing home muttering to herself about the "Pale One Who Got Away."

POWGA!

Pronounced "Powa!" The G is still totally silent.

SSA Ep. #22: Sports Frustrated

I may have mentioned here that I'm really not the athletic type. I may have mentioned that I have the tendency to trip over my own feet, painted lines in parking lots, flat surfaces, ...thin air.... Coordination isn't my strong point.

I have been trying to run for the past few weeks. I'm training for a 5K like some real runners might train for a marathon. Last night I actually ran a full 3/4 of a mile without stopping to walk. It was quite an accomplishment for me. That's how pathetic I am.

I am finding that I'm starting to enjoy running a little bit, but running isn't like an organized sport. Runners pretty much run until they stop running. There's not much else to it than that.

But I live in the South and I was raised in the psuedo-South. Down here, if you aren't into sports, especially college sports, then you might as well pin a scarlet letter to your shirt. People here are going to judge you and condemn you. I know this because I don't really like sports that much. I don't like playing them. I don't like watching them. I've been judged.

Sure, I can get a little excited watching a St. Louis Cards game, but I don't get REALLY excited (or really pay attention to how they're doing) unless they're playing in the World Series. So the last time I got really good and excited about sports was back in 2006 when the Cards won the Series. In the meantime, I've just been mostly oblivious to sports. I've been paying attention to *coughmoreimportantcough* things.

Please don't think I'm being judgmental, because other people really get a kick out of football (oops, was that a pun?) and basketball. Other people enjoy watching sports like I would enjoy watching a really good movie. There's nothing wrong with entertainment. I just don't find sports all that entertaining.

Last weekend, I had to take the girls I watch to their soccer games. This was way out of my comfort zone, let me tell you. One of the girls was six, and it's safe to say that she knows way more about soccer than I ever did. I know the basics. I know there's a ball. I know there are two goals. I know the players kick the balls towards the goals and hope to get it in, while a goalie tries to keep it out. That's pretty much all I know. I hear the coaches screaming about offense and defense, but I don't understand a bit of it.

I don't understand ANY sports, to be honest. All the little rules go right over my head. In fact, there's only one sport I really understand. Quidditch, anyone?

While watching the soccer games, I was more concerned about how messy the six-year-old's pony tail looked (I'm not good at styling hair, either) than how well she was playing.

Also, I'm afraid of balls. While I was watching the six -year-old match, my greatest fear was that the ball would get away from the kids and roll over to where I was sitting. Now, I wasn't afraid the ball would hit me. I got over that fear after working in a gym at a church (a GREAT job for someone who doesn't like sports, right?). I got hit by basketballs all the time there. My fear wasn't that I would get hit by a ball. My fear was that the ball would come to me and I would be expected to kick it back to the players.

...I knew that if this happened, I'd get shown up by a bunch of six-year-olds who can kick better than I ever could.

The ball did come my way. More than once. I pretended I didn't see it and let one of the coaches get it. I'm that kind of a person.

I remember back in high school, I used to play on this "just for fun" volleyball league. The "Just for Fun" league wasn't very much fun. I got yelled at a lot. Eventually, I decided that getting yelled at wasn't a lot of fun, and I stopped playing. That was the last time I ever willingly played an organized sport.

Yeah, I figure I'm going to stick to running and leave the organized sports to people who understand them. I have a feeling that even if I understood sports, I wouldn't do well. See, I just don't play well with others.

SAA Ep. # 21: Birthday Adventures

I just finished up another birthday. Number 31. Now I'm thirty-something; not just plain ol' 30 anymore. Yeah...birthdays (and Birthday Eves) are awesome, but for me, they are more opportunities for socially awkward adventures.

My first adventure happened on Birthday Eve (AKA St. Patrick's Day). My friend Desiree has an actual BIRTHDAY on my Birthday Eve, and I decided to get her some donuts--but not just any donuts. Krispy Kremes. You remember...the ONE DONUT TO RULE THEM ALL, the Donut of Power!

So, I woke up extra early that morning and traveled far into Mordor--I mean, the Krispy Kreme shop--hoping to snag a donuty breakfast of my own before going to work, you know, since I was there anyway.

The strangest thing happened when I walked into the store. There was this lady there who was trying to explain to the...donut sellers? Donut chefs? Donut artists? Donut-istas? Hmm...let's keep going with the LOTR's theme and call them Donut Orcs...or Dorcs. That works. People who make and sell donuts are officially called Dorcs.

Okay.

So, the strangest thing happened when I walked into Krispy Kreme. There was this lady who was trying to explain to the Dorcs that she wanted a dozen assorted donuts, but she wanted them all packaged differently. This poor lady, I felt so sorry for her (and even more so for the Dorc that was helping her), because she kept rambling and stuttering. Finally, she managed to tell the Dorcs that she wanted four donuts in one box, six in another box, one in a bag, and one to eat in the store. It took her about five minutes to explain all this because she kept stuttering and generally not making sense.

Then she finally got what she wanted the way she wanted it packaged, and she went to pay for her order. Well, the Dorcs didn't communicate very well with each other, and the lady wasn't paying attention, so she ended up paying for more donuts than she was supposed to, and then the manager had to come void the order. Then the poor lady couldn't carry all the stuff she had ordered and more Dorcs had to come help her.

Then the frazzled lady went to eat the donut she'd ordered in the store, and while she was there, she took out a notebook to write something down. What was she writing? Nobody knows, because the pen she was using didn't have any ink in it.

Did I mention that this poor frazzled lady was me?

It was.

I was writing down a prayer. I do that. I have ADOSD (Attention Deficit Oooh Shiny! Disorder). If I don't write down or type out my prayers, I can't stay focused. So that's what I was doing with the notebook...praying in Krispy Kreme. Only I got about two sentences into my prayer before my pen completely ran out of ink. I could have gone out to my car to get a pen, but that would have required me juggling all my boxes out to the car with me. I could have asked one of the Dorcs for a pen, but they had already done enough for poor confusing me. So I just sat there and wrote without any ink. And I know they noticed, because one of the Dorcs kept coming up behind me with the pretense of sweeping the floor, trying to figure out what in the world I was doing.

Eventually, I ate my donut and left...and I finished my prayer in the car...after I drove to a different parking lot...after I got a new pen...

So the rest of Birthday Eve was pretty fun. I went walking/running while listening to some Rich Mullins, and it was amazing. I felt so good both physically and Spiritually, but when I got done with the exercise, I had to rush. I was going to a production of Phantom of the Opera that was being performed by a local private school. So I showered and got dressed, and then realized I hadn't eaten much of anything since that donut. So I was lightheaded and stuff. I scarfed down some spaghetti squash and put on some mascara and rushed out the door.

My roommate was playing violin in the orchestra for the play (she teaches violin for the school), so she was driving. We were over halfway there when I realized I'd left my ticket at the apartment. Fortunately, the ticket people were very nice and very forgiving of poor frazzled me, and they got me another ticket. I was able to enjoy the show, but not before one more little bit of social awkwardness.

The student who took my ticket at the door was wearing some really cute black shoes. They were particularly cute, because I was wearing the same shoes. So I made a point of telling her, "Oh, I love your shoes!" She smiled and thanked me. I said, "We obviously have the same taste," and I showed her my shoes. She gave me a blank stare and thanked me again. I said, "I said that because we are wearing the same shoes." She gave me an even blanker stare...and I realized that she wasn't going to play the game. Aww. So I went and took my seat. The end.

The birthday went extremely well. There was very little social awkwardness on the actual birthday. I did go out to dinner with the family I nanny for, and I almost passed that up because I was SO tired. Birthdays are exhausting. But they talked me into it and I had a pleasant and almost completely unawkward experience. The waiter thought I was the kids' mom, but that sort of thing happens to me ALL the time. I should write a blog about that...

But then I went out to eat yesterday for some post-birthday merriment with my friends. We went to an upscale pizza place. First off, they couldn't seat us at a table (at first) and we were seated in two back-to-back booths, which meant we had to shout at each other if we wanted to converse.

Then, our waiter was interesting. He was a close-talker. And a skulker. You know the type. He stands way too close to you so that you can smell/feel his breath (smells/feels like fish)...and he just generally creeps you out. Then he looms over you while you're pondering your order. I think they do it on purpose. They stand there creeping you out until you just order the first thing you see--the featured and most expensive item on the side of the menu. We actually nicknamed him "Gollum" because of the skulking.

We got everything ordered and were able to move the party to an actual table, which was nice. But I was wearing a new shirt, and it gaped a lot (which I didn't realize before I put it on), so I ended up having to tug on my shirt constantly to keep from flashing everyone. Gollum may or may not have noticed this, but he did tell me that since it was my birthday celebration, I got a free piece of cake. So my friend turned to me and said, "Pull up your shirt, Ruth. The cake is ALREADY free!"

Yeah.

Then they brought out the cake, and I thought, "Phew! They're not one of these restaurants that does the big birthday production. They just let me eat my cake in peace!" But then another waiter (who was not Gollum, but a nice man named Kevin who has a bad toothache that keeps him up at night--please keep him in your prayers--I'm totally serious here) realized it was for my birthday, and he took the cake away again.

And I sighed and said, "Oh, apparently this cake comes with a side of public humiliation."

And it did. In the form of a candle. And a birthday song.

All in all, I had a MARVELOUS birthday, but I'm glad I have almost a whole year before I get to have another one. Birthdays are great, but they're exhausting.

I now return to my regularly scheduled life, which is already in progress.

Just Sayin' Ep. #4: Turning Thirty-Something

I'm not sure how someone as socially awkward as I am got SO many AMAZING friends, but this has been an awesome birthday. I'm so thankful for all the friends, family, kids, etc. in my life who have made this day EVEN better. I've had a fantastic day!

Being thirty-something isn't so bad after all.

Just sayin'.

SAA Ep. #20: Calorie Nazi

I have a bad habit of slipping into bad habits (see what I did there?). Recently, I discovered another bad habit I picked up. Oddly enough, it was a bad habit that came out of a good habit. My problem, as usual, is that I am seldom able to find a good balance. If I'm to succeed in something, I usually have to be super disciplined. Sometimes, this discipline spills over into my social life and starts annoying people.

Last year, I started counting calories because I decided I was sick of being fat. Sure, I fell off the wagon for a while...and gained back a lot of weight over Thanksgiving and Christmas, but I picked it back up again for the obligatory New Year's Resolutions. It works for me, but as I said, I have to be super disciplined. None of this "moderation" stuff works for me. I mean, I can limit myself to a couple of pieces of chocolate a day--I guess that's moderate. But if I were to go to a buffet--especially one with a dessert bar, we'd have a problem. I don't know when to say no, so I have to tell myself no beforehand.

And that means I have to know the calories in everything I eat before I eat it.

So last week one of my preschool kids had a birthday party, and the mom brought donuts...and not just any donuts. Krispy Kremes, the ONE DONUT TO RULE THEM ALL. I was going to politely refuse, but the mom put the beautiful donut on a plate and handed it to me. I had to accept. I took one bite, just one bite, of the glazed Precious. Oh, but once I had tasted the Donut of Power, I could not stop. Was I consuming it, or was it consuming me?

I skipped my lunch and one of my snacks that day to compensate, and the SECOND I got home, I turned on the computer and Googled "glazed Krispy Kreme donut calories." I had to know how much damage I had done.

Turns out, the Donut of Power was only 30 calories over the protein bar I was going to eat for lunch. It fit fairly easily into my diet. It fit so easily that I went back and had ANOTHER donut on Sunday. I'll probably go back and have another one sometime this week. Sure, there's very little protein or anything else healthy about a donut, even if the calories are relatively low, but Ruthums wants her Precioussss.

Don't start calling me Ruthums.

So anyway, when I looked up the calorie info for the donut, my roommate was sitting nearby. I started telling her about how many calories were in different kinds of donuts. Apparently, this stuff fascinates me now. I'd probably rattled off the calorie info for about seven different kinds of donuts before she finally said, "Ruth. Stop. Nobody cares."

She is right. Nobody cares. Except for me. It's because I've turned into a calorie nazi, and I didn't even realize it. Without any warning whatsoever, I can change from socially awkward superhero into a calorie counting nazi jerkface that annoys you by making you actually think about what you're eating.

I've even developed an unhealthy relationship with healthy spaghetti squash. Why? Because 9 ounces only has about 100 calories, and there's so much you can do with it. Seriously, I'm eating it like five nights a week now. Sunday, I put some 60 calorie spaghetti sauce on it. Yesterday, I also put spaghetti sauce on it (I love spaghetti). Tonight, I really shook things up and put peanut sauce on it--I even mixed in some chopped up spaghetti squash seeds to make it seem like there were peanuts in my squash noodles.

9 ounces of real pasta has a lot more than 100 calories in it, but you probably don't care.

My birthday is coming up, and I'm not even going to be able to get over my calorie nazi-ness for that. The family I sit/nanny for wants to take me out for a birthday dinner--already my brain is screaming, "OH NO! Where can I go? What can I eat? Calories are everywhere!" I want to try one of those Chick-fil-a banana pudding milkshakes on my birthday, but I know how many calories are in it and I'm going to have to share it with someone. I'm not even talking halves. I'm only drinking 1/3 of that bad boy. I want to go do something with my friends for my birthday, but I am terrified of anything that has to do with calories I'm not in control of.

...is this sad and pathetic? Probably.

...but at least my jeans fit...

...actually, they're a little loose.

I call it the donut diet (don't I wish...).

(Just so you know, I didn't include the number of calories in the Donut of Power because I figure that most people just don't want to know. If you know, then you can go Google it yourself. I mean, what do I look like? Your personal Google Slave? Sheesh.)

Embarrablast from the Past Ep.# 9: Weird Waiters

I have about six months combined experience working in a restaurant. For three months, I was a hostess at one of those franchised sit down family type restaurants that also has pie. I gained weight working there. I also worked for three months as a pizza delivery girl. I think I actually lost some weight with that job. Pie is better than pizza. *MUST RESIST URGE TO GO ON FIVE PARAGRAPH RANT ABOUT HOW I DON'T LIKE IT WHEN SOMEONE REFERS TO A "PIZZA PIE."*

So, yes, I have worked in the food service industry *just* long enough to learn that there are some weird characters who work in restaurants. Most of these people are kept behind the scenes--in the kitchen--cooking your food. Occasionally, however, I've been eating establishments where they keep their crazies right out in the open. I guess the management figures that it provides atmosphere...or something. At any rate, I think I've had more than my fair share of awkward experiences with restaurant employees.

My first example comes from my high school years. I went out to Shoney's with my family for my birthday. I think I was 16. Well, suddenly, the Shoney Bear pops up. You know...guy (girl?) in a big ol' cartoon bear costume. Smiling. Always smiling.

Shoney Bear comes up to my table and just stands there. My parents were at the salad bar or something. Shoney Bear just stands. Stupid big cartoon bear eyes. Smiling.

My parents came back, yet the Shoney Bear stood. Finally, I was like, "Do I know you?"

Shoney Bear, smiling, very slowly shakes his head "no."

"Can I help you with something?"

Shoney Bear smiles. And nods. And smiles.

Then Shoney Bear sits next to me in the booth and gives me a hug. Then Shoney Bear got up and went to harass someone else. Still smiling.

I had nightmares for weeks.

The second incident came from my later teenage years. I was in college at this point. I also had about the worst attitude in the world. Let me set the stage for you. It was the summer after my freshman year of college, where I had developed this ridiculous and completely unhealthy crush on this guy who just really didn't LIKE like me at all. I was still basking in the depths of despair, and my friend was like, "Oh come spend the weekend with me." So I did. And a few other friends came, too. In that weekend, my friend started dating someone. Two others who were there started dating. The other guy who was there was in a relationship and I wasn't interested anyway.

So we went to a restaurant (sidenote: does anyone find the word "restaurant" ridiculously awkward to spell??) and I was in a mood. So the waiter comes up and seats all of us. There were six of us. Two couples, me and this other guy. The waiter's name was Greg. I remember that vividly, because as the evening progressed, so did my intense hatred of Greg.

First, he just assumed all of us were dating each other somehow, which really was a pretty fair assumption. When I explained that I would be paying for my food separately, that's when he began being a phenomenal jerk. He started making this big show of how everyone else was dating and I wasn't. Did he think he was being cute? Idk. I just thought he was being rude. And I still think that.

Well, eventually everyone ordered dessert. One couple ordered a dessert to share. The other couple ordered a dessert to share. The guy ordered a dessert just for himself. I didn't want anything, so I didn't order anything. When Greg brought out the desserts, each of them had two spoons. He set them all down on the table, then jerks one of the spoons out of one of the desserts, looked right at me and said, "Oops! We won't be needing THAT one!"

Then, when he brought everyone their checks, he came over to me and said, "Oh, it's all right." And he put his arm around me and rubbed my shoulder. I don't know how I refrained from punching him in the face.

Greg did not get a tip. If you know me, then you know that's pretty serious.

The last example happened about a year ago. I went to a restaurant with one of my friends. The waiter comes up to our table and sits down next to me in the booth. "Hi, my name is "Not Greg" and I'll be your server today. Our specials are...."

I just glared at him. Really? In what universe is it okay for a waiter to just come and casually sit down next to someone they don't know? "Not Greg" eventually stopped telling us about the specials long enough to pay attention to my reaction.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" he asked.

I nodded. "Um, yes."

He stood up, did not apologize, and asked us what we wanted to drink. Then later, when he came back with our orders, he made this big deal about making ME sound like a jerk because I wouldn't let him sit next to me while taking my order.

He did get a tip...a minimal one...I mean, after all, he wasn't Greg.

I have probably had other weird restaurant employee experiences, but those are the big ones. A few months ago, I'm pretty sure I had Harry Potter for a waiter, but he wouldn't admit to anything.

Too Busy for an Update...So Here's This...

So I'm really too swamped to update the blog right now. Here's an awkward (and IMO, hilarious--but I'm biased) video of my newest song. The song was just written this weekend (after some of my wonderful friends had an unfortunate and awkward experience), and I put together the video as soon as the song was finished. Enjoy!




(and just a reminder, I love comments...and attention)

SAA Ep. # 19: Helpful, too Late

I'm not the most helpful person in the world, but I do like to help people out when there's something I can do. There are times, however, when I am just not as helpful as I might be.

Sometimes I get a case of the lazies and tell my friends I can't help them move because I'm tired. Now, this is truthful, but I'm not so tired that I can't help out. I'm basically being a lazy, no good friend.

Sometimes, I'm more than willing to help out, but I have to work when they need me. This is frustrating, but it kind of comes with the whole "working three jobs" territory. Chances are, if you call me last minute, I'm not going to be able to help.

Other times, people ask me to help out with stuff when I'm not the best person for the job. "Hey, Ruth, I could really use some help with my calculus homework." "Hey, random person with calculus homework, I'm not your guy. How 'bout letting me edit your English paper, though, eh?"

Then there's the situations like the one that occurred last night:

My friends and I are all standing in the foyer at church, just chatting. All of the sudden, out of the blue, and completely without warning (I think this might be a little too dramatic for this blog), a white minivan pulls up under the overhead awning thingy. Actually, I'm not sure if it's called an awning. Is it a parapet? A canopy? I'm not sure. It's the little thingy people drive under when unloading their kids.

And sure enough, one of my friends hops out of the car and starts going through the difficult process of unloading her kids. She has four of them, one of which is still a baby, and the oldest is about 6. So my friends and I were watching her, talking about how great she is with all her kids. We talked about how cute her kids are. We talked about how much we love her family.

Then, after about 3 minutes of watching this awesome mommy unload her four kids from the van, I was struck with a brilliant idea. "Maybe we should go out there and help her."

By the time I've thought of this, the mom entered the church with four kids in tow. It's not that I didn't want to be helpful, but for some reason, it just occurred to me to be helpul...a little too late.

I kinda sorta redeemed myself by watching her kids while she went to park the van, but *shrug*, I blew it.

Things like this happen to me all the time--probably because I'm not as considerate as I might be. I'm not sure if that's a symptom of the social awkwardness, or if it's just a symptom of good ol' fashioned human stupidity.

There are times when my roommate starts bringing in armloads of groceries. After her third trip, I get the bright idea to help her, just in time for her to say, "Oh, that was the last load." I offer to help the lead teacher in the preschool classroom where I teach, as she is cutting out stacks of construction paper butterflies. I ask her just as she is cutting the last one.

It just doesn't occur to me to help until it's too late. Maybe I need to be more like this one ultra observant and considerate roommate I had in college, who would hand me one of her post-it notes or pencils before I was able to grab one of my own from my desk. Wait...no...she was really annoying, actually. Helpful, but annoyingly so.

But it's my own fault I got that roommate, because after a less than satisfactory experience with a roommate who was extremely inconsiderate, I spent the summer praying: "Dear Lord, please give me a considerate roommate. That's all I want. I just want her to be considerate."

God does have a sense of humor.

I got a roommate. I got a considerate roommate. She was so considerate it drove me nuts. One night I remember shouting at her, "Why do you have to be so stinkin' considerate all the time?"

She thought I was crazy, and maybe I am.

SSA Ep # 18: Forgetful Gratitude

I'm pretty good at some things. I can sing. I can write. I dominate at word games. I can make kids laugh. I can sometimes make grown ups laugh, too. But I'm not good at everything. I mean, one person can't have ALL the awesome talents. I'm bad at sports. I can't dance (unless the hokey pokey counts). I can only draw well enough to impress a four year old. I am only fairly sure I'd be a pathetic rodeo clown, but to be fair, I've never really tried. ...and I'm pretty sure I never will...

One thing I'm horribly, horrifically, terribly, and very very BAD at is taking compliments. I've gotten slightly better at it, but at the end of the day I still find myself guiltily replaying the conversations I had throughout the day in my mind:

Friend/Coworker/Parent/Or Other Nice Person: I love that shirt you're wearing!
Me: I got it at Target. $9.00. On Clearance.

or

F/C/P/ONP: You've lost more weight, haven't you? You look great!
Me: Actually, I think I've gained weight since last week.

or

F/C/P/ONP: I heard you singing those high notes in choir today. You have a pretty voice.
Me: I have a slight cold, so I'm surprised I didn't croak this morning.

or

F/C/P/ONP: The blog you wrote last night made me laugh.
Me: Which one? Oh, that one? Yeah. That was a totally awkward situation, huh?

I have conversations simliar to those above on a fairly regular basis. I'm not sure if my replies to these compliments come from some sort of self-esteem issue or just because I feel the need to say something witty. The one theme I notice in all situations is that I often forget something very important. I forget to say "Thank you."

It's not because I'm not thankful (though I suspect I'm not as grateful as I should be). I mean, I get a lot of compliments from people. It's not because I'm particularly awesome--it's because I have awesome friends who choose to see good things in other people. I love my friends. I love the parents I have come to know over the years. I love my coworkers. I'm exceedingly grateful for them and for the constant encouragement they are to me.

But I forget to say thank you. If someone compliments me on something I'm wearing, why do I feel the need to mention to them where I got it? Do I think they're going to run out and buy one just like it? Do I just want to brag that I scored an amazing purchase? If someone compliments me on a talent I have, do I try to appear more humble by downplaying it? If someone compliments me just because they care and want to say something nice, do I try to come up with some response other than "thank you" because I feel the need to fill the conversation with meaningless and not-as-witty-as-I-think-it-is chatter?

I think the answer to all of those is YES.

So, it is apparent that I have a problem.

But what do they say? Admitting you have a problem is the first step? The first step to what? I don't know.

I hope it's not a dance step. I so can't dance.

(In case I've forgotten to thank you for a compliment or anything else, let me say it right now: THANK YOU!)

SAA Ep. # 17: That's Not My Name, That's Not My Name

Today I was leaving the preschool where I work, when this mom I know...eh, fairly well...said hi to me. It took me about 0.43 seconds too long to respond to her greeting because she called me the wrong name. Now, it wasn't COMPLETELY wrong, but it might as well have been. She called me "Ruth Ann," which caused me to mentally stumble before I could reply. I said "Hi" back, and then for about 5 seconds, I debated whether or not I should correct her. I figured that knowing someone "...eh, fairly well" wasn't reason enough to inform her of her little mistake. And she isn't the only one who makes that error. This one professor from college called me "Ruth Ann" all the time, and I didn't have the heart to correct him.

Yeah, I can understand that my name is slightly confusing.

I go by Ruth.

My name is Anna Ruth Campbell. I don't mind posting my full name here because 1) I'm kinda sorta trying to make a name for myself as an author, so if all goes as planned, the whole world is gonna know the name A. R. Campbell anyway. 2) There are a heck of a lot of Anna Ruth Campbells in the world. I know because I've googled myself. Socially awkward people google themselves a lot. 3) It's not like I have a lot of readers who don't know me anyway--hopefully that will change when the whole world knows me as A. R. Campbell, published author.

Sidenote #1: Agents I've queried (and some other people in the writing world) can't seem to grasp that my name is Ruth, and not Anna. This has to do with the fact that my email address has my full name in it, but when I sign my emails "Ruth Campbell," you'd think people wouldn't reply to me with a "Dear Anna." Still, "Dear Anna" is a LOT better than "Dear Author." Well, okay, so I kind of like being called an author, even though it's impersonal/automatically sent. And...sidenote done.

Please note that my name is NOT "Ruth Ann." Never ever "Ruth Ann." I'm sorry if your name is "Ruth Ann" or if you have a beloved relative named "Ruth Ann" or if you just totally love the name "Ruth Ann," but the name just sets my teeth on edge. I'm from the Pseudo-Southern state of KY, and I live in the sometimes actually Southern state of NC, but the name "Ruth Ann" is just way to country for someone like me. I'm SO grateful my parents opted NOT to name me "Ruth Ann." They were very, very close to doing so. They named me for three friends they knew--one named Ruth, one named Ann, and another named Anne. They decided not to name me "Ruth Ann(e)" because they couldn't decide how to spell the Ann(e). (If they HAD named me "Ruth Ann(e)," I would have definitely preferred it with an E. Anne Shirley/Blythe had the right idea).

Sidenote #2: I'm the only kid in my family whose name wasn't chosen before my parents even got married. They had a boy's name and a girl's name picked out. I was the second born girl, so they had to come up with something for me. I can't complain too much. I like my name, despite how common it is. I love my parents, but they had no originality in name giving. At least they didn't name any of us "Placenta," "Sh*thead" or "Lemonjello." And...sidenote done.

So yeah. I'm one of those people who goes by her middle name. I like the name Anna very much, but it's not what I go by. I have never gone by Anna. I have always gone by Ruth and don't see any reason to change that now. I feel the need to emphasize this because I've had a lot of people argue with me about what I should go by.

Sidenote #3: Once I went on a mission trip with this professor who tried to call me by my first name. When I corrected her, not only did she argue that I should go by "Anna," but she suggested I pronounce it "AH-na" instead of "Ann-NA". It was so ridiculous because she wouldn't let the subject drop. And I spent two weeks with her in a foreign land. Fun stuff. And...sidenote done.

I think there are a lot of people in the world that just don't understand that there are many people who go by their middle names. It's not so uncommon that I should get arguments about what I should go by. Sometimes parents call their kids by their middle names because they're named after their parents and they want to avoid confusion. Sometimes parents call their kids by their middle names because of the way the name combination flows. Sometimes parents just WANT to call their kids by their middle names. It doesn't matter why, really--it's just not something "people with normal names" should argue about.

Sidenote #4: There was a guy in college who's last name was Routh, pronounced Ruth. People started calling him by his last name in college, and that got confusing. One day, he was bold enough to ask me why I just didn't start going by my first name so we wouldn't get so confused. I was like, "Well, for one thing, I've been answering to Ruth all my life, and people just started calling you Routh when you came to college, so maybe YOU should start going by YOUR first name again."

Sidenote to the sidenote: When I first met this individual, I totally had a stroke of brilliance and scared him half to death. When I learned his last name was Routh, I smiled sweetly at him. The first words I ever spoke to him were: "Hi, Mr. Routh. I will never marry you." I probably should have explained my comment (I didn't want to go through life as Ruth Routh) but it was more fun to see him squirm. And...sidenotes done.

Anyway, if you're one of those people who still just doesn't understand why people go by their middle names, I can't explain it to you. Just deal with it, because we're not going to change our whole identities to make you happy. Bottom line: I like my name. I like going by Ruth (even if the majority of people who share my name are over the age of 75). If you call me "Anna," I'm not going to answer--not because I'm rude, but because I don't realize you're talking to me. Anna is a great name, and it's part of my name, but it's not the name with which I identify myself. When I meet someone with the name Anna, I usually don't automatically realize that I share part of my name with them. If someone's name is Ruth, then I immediately get excited to have met someone who shares my name.

Sidenote #5: I once met this kid named "Ruthanna," and I was REALLY excited to meet her. Cool name. Cool, cool name. And...sidenote...nevermind. You get it.

One of the biggest pet peeves I have is when people try to call me "Ruthie." That is not my name. People have tried to argue that it's a nickname. People have tried to argue that it's the same thing as "Ruth." It's not. In my eyes (and ears), it is a completely different name. Ruthie is the cute curly haired kid on 7th Heaven (Incidentally, there was an episode of that where her teacher insisted on calling her Ruth, and she kept insisting that her name wasn't Ruth, it was Ruthie. I see her point. The names are not the same). Again, I'm sorry if your name is "Ruthie" or if you have a beloved relative named "Ruthie" or if you just totally love the name "Ruthie," but it just sounds like the name you give to a little kid. I am not a little kid. I'm a grown woman. And my name is not "Ruthie." When someone calls me "Ruthie," it sounds like an insult because someone is calling me something that's not my name. Ruth is my identity. Ruthie is someone else's identity. I don't have a problem with this if someone calls me "Ruthie" without knowing I don't like it, but I always make a point of correcting this (and I do wonder why people assume it's okay). Even with people whom I only know "...eh, fairly well." I guess that, for some reason, "Ruth Ann" doesn't set my teeth on edge nearly as much as "Ruthie."

If you know I don't like it and call me "Ruthie" as a I joke, I'm not going to laugh. I've had to get mean with people in the past who have persisted in calling me "Ruthie" because they know I don't like it. In my opinion, that kind of behavior is really immature and rude. It's a big deal to me because, as I said, when someone calls me by a name that's not mine, it comes across as an insult. I don't add unnecessary -ie's to the end of other people's names. I don't see why some other people feel the need to do so with mine. That's all I'm saying. Moving on now...

As common as the name "Anna Ruth Campbell" is (I googled it, remember?), I must say that I really like my name, and it really seems to fit me. One thing you might discover about me is that I'm kind of obsessed with name meanings. Anna means "gracious." Ruth means "beautiful friend." Campbell means "one who has a crooked mouth." So, roughly, my name means "Gracious, beautiful friend with a crooked mouth." I'm very proud of my name. I try to be gracious (even with people who call me "Ruthie"...but sometimes enough is enough). I'm a fiercely loyal friend who strives to be compassionate towards others. The crooked mouth thing is something I'm actually pretty proud of. I love being a Campbell. It's a good Scottish name...and I've got a lot of Scottish blood in me. To me, the "crooked mouth" part of my name just serves to remind me that I'm not perfect. I have a huge problem with tact. I have a complete inability to not blurt out the first thing that comes into my mind. So I'm often brutally honest with people. This leads to all sorts of fun socially awkward moments...and sometimes some anger...

But people usually thank me later.

One more cool thing about my name is that there are four letters in my first name, four letters in my middle name, and eight letters (two sets of four, if you're mathematically challenged) in my last name. Four is my favorite number. Just sayin'.

So if I ever get married, I really don't think I'm going to drop any of my names. I'll just add my hubby's last name to the end of mine--no hyphens or anything. Just the name. I'll have four names (I like that number). Of course, this depends on the guy's last name. My sister once dated this guy with the last name Butts. Yeah... Sometimes it's better to keep your maiden name.

And, attention single guys: If your last name starts with an S or an H, I might be more likely to marry you. That way my initials will spell ARCS or ARCH and will still be a word. I like that my initials spell a word.

...and I think I've completely exhausted this topic, as well as revealed that I have thought WAY too much about my name.