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.
Monday, August 29, 2011
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!
Monday, August 22, 2011
Story Time! Episode #1
So let me you a story about the time I spent a week in a fairly large city the summer between my junior and senior years of high school. I was there with my family for a convention in which they were participating. Other families had kids my age, so I made a few friends that week. And my parents let me hang out with them in the convention center for a while. The convention center was like two blocks away from the hotel where we were staying, and they figured I was old enough to safely find my way back there after dark.
So it was probably about 10 at night when I finally bid my friends farewell, shouldered my handy-dandy backpack (I was way too cool for a purse in those days) and began my short journey back to the hotel. I knew the way well enough (it wasn't that far), so I wasn't at all nervous as I started out. But I hadn't gone far at all before I heard something.
Footsteps.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw a fairly large and suspicious-looking man standing a few feet behind me. He had seemingly come out of nowhere, so I suppose he'd walked out of an alleyway or something. It was the kind of thing I'd only seen in bad horror movies with cute girls who can't fight/run, but they make up for it with their epic screaming talents.
I decided to play it cool. There was no reason to believe that fairly large and suspicious looking man (FLASLM for short) was doing anything more than taking a stroll behind a girl with a backpack. There was no reason to believe he was following me. There was no reason to believe that the next morning's newspaper was going to contain a brief story about the raping/mauling/murder/etc. of an unfortunate out-of-town teenage girl with an equally unfortunate backpack.
Or maybe there was reason...
I started walking a little more quickly, hoping that the FLASLM was just a coincidence, but I could still hear his footsteps. They were matching mine, pace for pace. Again, I tried not to panic. I mean, there was no reason to believe he was doing this on purpose. Maybe he suffered from horrible marching band flashbacks where he couldn't NOT match walking pace with other people.
But I started to walk even faster.
The footsteps also walked faster.
I turned around and glanced again at the FLASLM. He looked at me and smiled. It was one of THOSE smiles. One of those smiles that bad movie creepy guys give when they're about to hurt someone. I turned around, still trying not to panic, and I walked even FASTER.
This time, when the footsteps matched my pace, I lost it.
I broke out in a run. Sure enough, FLASLM also started running. He was chasing me.
My life started flashing before my eyes. Wow! Was I REALLY into pink that much as a kid? Like seriously, it's like the first 12 years of my life were just one big pink blur. What was I thinking? Luckily, when I was in middle school, that peculiar shade of hot pink that was so bright it could block out the sun became popular. And after a few weeks of being in love with that particular color, I think it burned my eyes until I just got completely burned out on pink.
So after my life flashed before my eyes, I realized I was going to die. The FLASLM was going to catch me and kill me to death. This was the end. I started thinking about what my funeral would be like--if they even found enough of my body to confirm that I was indeed dead. I pictured people leaning over my closed casket while someone sang "Can You Feel the Love Tonight," because that was my favorite song in those days. And people would be crying, not because I was dead, but because they were thinking about the Lion King and how Mufasa died. And let's face it, the death of a cartoon lion with James Earl Jones' voice is like the saddest thing ever.
Yes, I thought about these things as I ran. And I almost didn't realize how close I was to my hotel. But there it was, right in front of me. I just had to run fast enough to get to it.
The FLASLM was right behind me, but luckily, he tripped over a rock. Silly FLASLM! This gave me just enough time to reach the door of the hotel before he could catch me. I grabbed the handle of the hotel door and jerked hard, knowing my safety was just on the other side of that door.
But the door was locked.
I don't know what possessed me to do it. Normally, I'd never even DREAM of doing something so desperate. But I looked over my shoulder at the FLASLM, who was just rising to his feet again. He wasn't smiling anymore. He looked angry. And dangerous. He rushed towards me.
And I knew there was only one chance I had to avoid being a statistic. I didn't have time to think. I just did it.
I pulled my backpack from my shoulder and I swung it into the glass of the hotel door. I swung it with all my might. And miraculously, the glass shattered, leaving a hole large enough for me to jump through.
I leapt through the hole in the door, knowing I was safe, safe from the FLASLM who would surely murderize me.
But as I jumped through the hole, my pants leg caught on some of the jagged glass. And the FLASLM caught up with me, grabbing my leg.
He grabbed my leg and pulled it. He pulled my leg. He pulled and pulled and pulled it.
Just like I'm pulling yours.
The end.
So it was probably about 10 at night when I finally bid my friends farewell, shouldered my handy-dandy backpack (I was way too cool for a purse in those days) and began my short journey back to the hotel. I knew the way well enough (it wasn't that far), so I wasn't at all nervous as I started out. But I hadn't gone far at all before I heard something.
Footsteps.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw a fairly large and suspicious-looking man standing a few feet behind me. He had seemingly come out of nowhere, so I suppose he'd walked out of an alleyway or something. It was the kind of thing I'd only seen in bad horror movies with cute girls who can't fight/run, but they make up for it with their epic screaming talents.
I decided to play it cool. There was no reason to believe that fairly large and suspicious looking man (FLASLM for short) was doing anything more than taking a stroll behind a girl with a backpack. There was no reason to believe he was following me. There was no reason to believe that the next morning's newspaper was going to contain a brief story about the raping/mauling/murder/etc. of an unfortunate out-of-town teenage girl with an equally unfortunate backpack.
Or maybe there was reason...
I started walking a little more quickly, hoping that the FLASLM was just a coincidence, but I could still hear his footsteps. They were matching mine, pace for pace. Again, I tried not to panic. I mean, there was no reason to believe he was doing this on purpose. Maybe he suffered from horrible marching band flashbacks where he couldn't NOT match walking pace with other people.
But I started to walk even faster.
The footsteps also walked faster.
I turned around and glanced again at the FLASLM. He looked at me and smiled. It was one of THOSE smiles. One of those smiles that bad movie creepy guys give when they're about to hurt someone. I turned around, still trying not to panic, and I walked even FASTER.
This time, when the footsteps matched my pace, I lost it.
I broke out in a run. Sure enough, FLASLM also started running. He was chasing me.
My life started flashing before my eyes. Wow! Was I REALLY into pink that much as a kid? Like seriously, it's like the first 12 years of my life were just one big pink blur. What was I thinking? Luckily, when I was in middle school, that peculiar shade of hot pink that was so bright it could block out the sun became popular. And after a few weeks of being in love with that particular color, I think it burned my eyes until I just got completely burned out on pink.
So after my life flashed before my eyes, I realized I was going to die. The FLASLM was going to catch me and kill me to death. This was the end. I started thinking about what my funeral would be like--if they even found enough of my body to confirm that I was indeed dead. I pictured people leaning over my closed casket while someone sang "Can You Feel the Love Tonight," because that was my favorite song in those days. And people would be crying, not because I was dead, but because they were thinking about the Lion King and how Mufasa died. And let's face it, the death of a cartoon lion with James Earl Jones' voice is like the saddest thing ever.
Yes, I thought about these things as I ran. And I almost didn't realize how close I was to my hotel. But there it was, right in front of me. I just had to run fast enough to get to it.
The FLASLM was right behind me, but luckily, he tripped over a rock. Silly FLASLM! This gave me just enough time to reach the door of the hotel before he could catch me. I grabbed the handle of the hotel door and jerked hard, knowing my safety was just on the other side of that door.
But the door was locked.
I don't know what possessed me to do it. Normally, I'd never even DREAM of doing something so desperate. But I looked over my shoulder at the FLASLM, who was just rising to his feet again. He wasn't smiling anymore. He looked angry. And dangerous. He rushed towards me.
And I knew there was only one chance I had to avoid being a statistic. I didn't have time to think. I just did it.
I pulled my backpack from my shoulder and I swung it into the glass of the hotel door. I swung it with all my might. And miraculously, the glass shattered, leaving a hole large enough for me to jump through.
I leapt through the hole in the door, knowing I was safe, safe from the FLASLM who would surely murderize me.
But as I jumped through the hole, my pants leg caught on some of the jagged glass. And the FLASLM caught up with me, grabbing my leg.
He grabbed my leg and pulled it. He pulled my leg. He pulled and pulled and pulled it.
Just like I'm pulling yours.
The end.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Happy Belated Birthday, Adventures in Social Awkwardness
I missed it. I missed it because I got too busy doing stuff like reading popular dystopian YA literature, working with short people, singing notes that are almost so high that only dogs can hear them, running with scissors, and watching PBS shows about whales. You know...the usual.
Adventures in Social Awkwardness turned a year old on Sunday. And I missed it.
Lately, I've actually noticed that I'm not updating this particular blog as much as I have in the past. I wonder why that is. Is it because I, Socially Awkward Girl, has had a lack of socially awkward encounters? Perish the thought! PERISH IT! Rather, I think it's because I've been too busy living through socially awkward encounters to actually take the time to write about them. And when I do have a socially awkward encounter, I tend to forgedduhboudit before I have the chance to blog.
I've also not been writing blogs for my Dragon-Muses lately, but that's mainly because I'm not spending time with them enough to know what they want to blog about. They've actually called a "Family Meeting" to deal with my lack of writing and communication with them, which kind of makes me scared. I've been avoiding it--avoiding them--because it's never a good thing when Dragons are upset with you.
So just in case you were wondering if some of my blogs are dying, the answer is no. I mean, right now I'm typing this while listening to some maintainence guys bang on the wall outside my apartment. I'm not sure why they're doing this, but oddly enough, it's giving me some inspiration.
So stay tuned.
Adventures in Social Awkwardness turned a year old on Sunday. And I missed it.
Lately, I've actually noticed that I'm not updating this particular blog as much as I have in the past. I wonder why that is. Is it because I, Socially Awkward Girl, has had a lack of socially awkward encounters? Perish the thought! PERISH IT! Rather, I think it's because I've been too busy living through socially awkward encounters to actually take the time to write about them. And when I do have a socially awkward encounter, I tend to forgedduhboudit before I have the chance to blog.
I've also not been writing blogs for my Dragon-Muses lately, but that's mainly because I'm not spending time with them enough to know what they want to blog about. They've actually called a "Family Meeting" to deal with my lack of writing and communication with them, which kind of makes me scared. I've been avoiding it--avoiding them--because it's never a good thing when Dragons are upset with you.
So just in case you were wondering if some of my blogs are dying, the answer is no. I mean, right now I'm typing this while listening to some maintainence guys bang on the wall outside my apartment. I'm not sure why they're doing this, but oddly enough, it's giving me some inspiration.
So stay tuned.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
SAA Ep.# 46: Stereotypical Stoplight Guy
Stoplights are probably some of the most interesting things ever invented, and they were invented by a black guy (from central KY, because people from central KY are awesome). History is full of intelligent black men and women who have done some amazing things. I also happen to know several hardworking black men and women who are upstanding citizens with amazing families. So don't think I'm being racist when I speak of the stereotypical black guy who seems to be at every stoplight I encounter.
He drives some kind of souped up hooptie car. I'm not even sure if that's how you spell hooptie, but that's what I'm going with. He's wearing a muscle shirt and/or wifebeater. His hair is either in awesome dreads or covered up with some kind of doo-rag...sometimes both at the same time. His windows are rolled down. His license plate says something like, "GNGSTALV." Oh, and he's playing his angry rap shouting music so loudly that every car at the stoplight is shaking in time with its obnoxious vibrations.
And maybe I'm not speaking for everyone, but I think that a very small part of most of the other people at that stoplight wishes they could be as cool as stereotypical black guy.
As a hopelessly white girl, there's no way I could ever be as cool as stereotypical black guy. I wish I could say that that kept me from trying.
I drive a Taurus. There's nothing hooptie about a Taurus. I mean, despite the sunroof and spoiler on the back, my car still screams "SOCCER MOM!" I have entertained the idea of getting a vanity plate, but I've got some personal convictions about spending $30 bucks a year just so people will be able to sit at stoplights and puzzle over the meaning of the cutesy saying I've legally plastered to the back of my car. But if I did get a vanity plate, it wouldn't say anything cool with the word "GNGSTA." I know what it would say. It would say "BADHIPPY." The reason it would say "BADHIPPY" is because I am, in fact, a bad hippy. And I am a bad hippy not because I'm a hippy that has been naughty, but because I'm a hippy, and I'm very bad at it.
But since the NC DMV only allows eight letters on their vanity plates, I can't get a vanity plate that says, "I'm a bad hippy because I'm a hippy, and I'm bad at it." So I can see a vanity plate that says, "BADHIPPY" leading to all sorts of misunderstandings.
Some people might assume that I'm a naughty hippy who likes to protest war and smoke various substances and do all the things that naughty hippies do. That's not the case. The very reason that I am a bad hippy is because I don't do all the things that hippies are supposed to do. I mean, for one thing, I take showers every day. But people who read my vanity plate wouldn't know that, and they might hate me for being an unpatriotic pothead, which isn't the case.
Then, on the other hand, I can see some actual hippies reading my actual vanity plate, and they might assume that I'm insulting hippies. If my car were parked somewhere--let's just say the Wal-mart parking lot--and some hippies saw my vanity plate and were offended, they'd probably call up all their hippy friends. So when I left Wal-mart to return to my car, there would be a full blown hippy protest party going on on top of my car. Hmm...on second thought...that might be pretty amazing....
But even if I did have a cool vanity plate that led to spontaneous hippy parties, I still would not be as cool as stereotypical black guy.
I do like to roll my windows down when the weather is nice. Lately, the temperatures have been near or over 100 degrees here, so I've actually used my common sense and utilized my car's air conditioner. But when the weather is closer to 60-80 degrees, I'll roll the windows down. I have several reasons for this. 1) I really like the feel of the wind on my face and in my hair. I'm a bad hippy, after all. 2) Despite all the google articles I've read that state the contrary, I really do feel that I'm getting better gas mileage if I don't use the air conditioning. 3) I like being obnoxious and blasting my music for everyone to hear it.
Only, I don't like rap music. I don't even like what's popular on the radio these days. I listen to Christian radio. And most of the cds I listen to are also Christian artists. The ones that aren't Christian artists are artists that are closer to my grandfather's age than they are to mine. The ones that are Christian artists are either dead or so obscure that even other people who listen to Christian radio haven't even heard of them. So if you happen to drive up beside me at a stoplight and we both have our windows down, you might just be treated to some Rich Mullins. So instead of hearing some obnoxiously loud reverberating cool rap, you're gonna hear some obnoxiously loud hammered dulcimer. Oh yeah. I'm awesome.
Maybe I should just get some dreads.
He drives some kind of souped up hooptie car. I'm not even sure if that's how you spell hooptie, but that's what I'm going with. He's wearing a muscle shirt and/or wifebeater. His hair is either in awesome dreads or covered up with some kind of doo-rag...sometimes both at the same time. His windows are rolled down. His license plate says something like, "GNGSTALV." Oh, and he's playing his angry rap shouting music so loudly that every car at the stoplight is shaking in time with its obnoxious vibrations.
And maybe I'm not speaking for everyone, but I think that a very small part of most of the other people at that stoplight wishes they could be as cool as stereotypical black guy.
As a hopelessly white girl, there's no way I could ever be as cool as stereotypical black guy. I wish I could say that that kept me from trying.
I drive a Taurus. There's nothing hooptie about a Taurus. I mean, despite the sunroof and spoiler on the back, my car still screams "SOCCER MOM!" I have entertained the idea of getting a vanity plate, but I've got some personal convictions about spending $30 bucks a year just so people will be able to sit at stoplights and puzzle over the meaning of the cutesy saying I've legally plastered to the back of my car. But if I did get a vanity plate, it wouldn't say anything cool with the word "GNGSTA." I know what it would say. It would say "BADHIPPY." The reason it would say "BADHIPPY" is because I am, in fact, a bad hippy. And I am a bad hippy not because I'm a hippy that has been naughty, but because I'm a hippy, and I'm very bad at it.
But since the NC DMV only allows eight letters on their vanity plates, I can't get a vanity plate that says, "I'm a bad hippy because I'm a hippy, and I'm bad at it." So I can see a vanity plate that says, "BADHIPPY" leading to all sorts of misunderstandings.
Some people might assume that I'm a naughty hippy who likes to protest war and smoke various substances and do all the things that naughty hippies do. That's not the case. The very reason that I am a bad hippy is because I don't do all the things that hippies are supposed to do. I mean, for one thing, I take showers every day. But people who read my vanity plate wouldn't know that, and they might hate me for being an unpatriotic pothead, which isn't the case.
Then, on the other hand, I can see some actual hippies reading my actual vanity plate, and they might assume that I'm insulting hippies. If my car were parked somewhere--let's just say the Wal-mart parking lot--and some hippies saw my vanity plate and were offended, they'd probably call up all their hippy friends. So when I left Wal-mart to return to my car, there would be a full blown hippy protest party going on on top of my car. Hmm...on second thought...that might be pretty amazing....
But even if I did have a cool vanity plate that led to spontaneous hippy parties, I still would not be as cool as stereotypical black guy.
I do like to roll my windows down when the weather is nice. Lately, the temperatures have been near or over 100 degrees here, so I've actually used my common sense and utilized my car's air conditioner. But when the weather is closer to 60-80 degrees, I'll roll the windows down. I have several reasons for this. 1) I really like the feel of the wind on my face and in my hair. I'm a bad hippy, after all. 2) Despite all the google articles I've read that state the contrary, I really do feel that I'm getting better gas mileage if I don't use the air conditioning. 3) I like being obnoxious and blasting my music for everyone to hear it.
Only, I don't like rap music. I don't even like what's popular on the radio these days. I listen to Christian radio. And most of the cds I listen to are also Christian artists. The ones that aren't Christian artists are artists that are closer to my grandfather's age than they are to mine. The ones that are Christian artists are either dead or so obscure that even other people who listen to Christian radio haven't even heard of them. So if you happen to drive up beside me at a stoplight and we both have our windows down, you might just be treated to some Rich Mullins. So instead of hearing some obnoxiously loud reverberating cool rap, you're gonna hear some obnoxiously loud hammered dulcimer. Oh yeah. I'm awesome.
Maybe I should just get some dreads.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
SSA Ep. #45: What Was This Blog Supposed to be About?
The way I see it, there are two ways my life could go. Either I will develop skin cancer and die while still relatively young, or I'll beat that skin cancer (I'm pretty sure the skin cancer will develop eventually--it is my destiny) and live to be really, really old. And if I live to be really, really old, I'll have Alzheimer's Syndrome. I'm pretty sure the Alzheimer's is unavoidable, too, simply because my 31 year old brain is already having serious trouble making and keeping connections. I do crossword puzzles and Sudoku and other things to try to sharpen my brain power, but it's kind of a lost cause. I think I've already started a very very gradual decline towards completely losing my memory.
For instance, I have thought of dozens and dozens of wonderful socially awkward topics about which to blog, but alas, thirty seconds after I've dreamt them up, I forget them. I might remember some of these topics on some random day during some random encounter, but some of them are probably forgotten forever. Just last night, I had some brilliant topic that I was going to blog on today, but...I forgot it.
That kind of thing happens a lot. I walk into a room and can't remember why. I stand up to go do something, only to sit down a second later because I can't remember what I was about to do. I learned a long time ago that if I think up a good line for a poem, I'd better write it down immediately or it'll get lost somewhere in the fluffy synapses of my brain.
Sometimes I think my head is like Winnie the Pooh's...stuffed with fluff. I guess that beats one of the alternatives. Poor Eeyore--stuffed with sawdust. Yeah, I see you judging the gloomy little guy. You'd be gloomy too if you were stuffed with sawdust. And if your tail kept falling off. So there.
Yeah, but anyway, I was kind of just writing this in hopes that I would remember what I was originally going to blog about today, but I don't think that's going to happen. Maybe it will come to me sometime tomorrow while I'm at work, trying to remember what some kid just asked me to do for them. Maybe it's lost forever. Maybe someday when I'm in a nursing home drooling in my jello (which I won't remember that I don't like), I'll remember it. I might not remember my own name, but I'll remember what I was going to blog about today.
All I know is that it was brilliant. It was a brilliant topic. Perhaps it was so brilliant that it would change the world and life as we know it. Perhaps that's why my brain forgot it. It was a fail safe. My poor memory is the one defense the world has from knowing my insane genius! ...so all the world ends up seeing is the insane part. Thanks, brain. Thanks a lot.
And please no one take this the wrong way, because I know this is horrible. I'm not making fun of anyone besides myself. My great grandmother had Alzheimer's and it's a horrible, horrible thing. I've been blessed to not have any other close family members to have had it, so far (and I'm hoping never). But one day I was talking to my roommate about Alzheimer's, and I was saying how I hoped no one in my family ever got it. And then I said something that made me laugh hysterically, because it was funny in a pathetic way--which pretty much describes most of my life. I said, "If anyone in my family has to get Alzheimer's, I hope it's me. I don't have any kids who will worry about me, and if I'm going to be sad and alone someday, it might be kind of nice to not know what was going on."
Yeah.
For instance, I have thought of dozens and dozens of wonderful socially awkward topics about which to blog, but alas, thirty seconds after I've dreamt them up, I forget them. I might remember some of these topics on some random day during some random encounter, but some of them are probably forgotten forever. Just last night, I had some brilliant topic that I was going to blog on today, but...I forgot it.
That kind of thing happens a lot. I walk into a room and can't remember why. I stand up to go do something, only to sit down a second later because I can't remember what I was about to do. I learned a long time ago that if I think up a good line for a poem, I'd better write it down immediately or it'll get lost somewhere in the fluffy synapses of my brain.
Sometimes I think my head is like Winnie the Pooh's...stuffed with fluff. I guess that beats one of the alternatives. Poor Eeyore--stuffed with sawdust. Yeah, I see you judging the gloomy little guy. You'd be gloomy too if you were stuffed with sawdust. And if your tail kept falling off. So there.
Yeah, but anyway, I was kind of just writing this in hopes that I would remember what I was originally going to blog about today, but I don't think that's going to happen. Maybe it will come to me sometime tomorrow while I'm at work, trying to remember what some kid just asked me to do for them. Maybe it's lost forever. Maybe someday when I'm in a nursing home drooling in my jello (which I won't remember that I don't like), I'll remember it. I might not remember my own name, but I'll remember what I was going to blog about today.
All I know is that it was brilliant. It was a brilliant topic. Perhaps it was so brilliant that it would change the world and life as we know it. Perhaps that's why my brain forgot it. It was a fail safe. My poor memory is the one defense the world has from knowing my insane genius! ...so all the world ends up seeing is the insane part. Thanks, brain. Thanks a lot.
And please no one take this the wrong way, because I know this is horrible. I'm not making fun of anyone besides myself. My great grandmother had Alzheimer's and it's a horrible, horrible thing. I've been blessed to not have any other close family members to have had it, so far (and I'm hoping never). But one day I was talking to my roommate about Alzheimer's, and I was saying how I hoped no one in my family ever got it. And then I said something that made me laugh hysterically, because it was funny in a pathetic way--which pretty much describes most of my life. I said, "If anyone in my family has to get Alzheimer's, I hope it's me. I don't have any kids who will worry about me, and if I'm going to be sad and alone someday, it might be kind of nice to not know what was going on."
Yeah.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
SAA Ep. #44: The Number Four
It's the 44th Socially Awkward Adventure episode, which means absolutely nothing, really, because I just kind of arbitrarily assign titles to these things that have little reason or rhyme. But since is IS the 44th Socially Awkward Adventure episode, I would like to take a moment to express my gratitude to a very special number.
Four.
Four, I love you. You are just the perfect number.
I don't even really know why I feel for you the way that I do. Perhaps it's the way you almost look like an A, but then you stop looking like an A and become a 4. Perhaps it's the way you come right after three and right before 5. Perhaps it's because you're made from four 1s, from two 2s. Perhaps it's the way two of you become 8, or four of you become 16. Those numbers, all the numbers that you make are special. But none is more special than you.
No, number four, I know not why you are my favorite number. The six year old I watch loves the number six. In a few weeks, when she turns seven, her favorite number will be seven. That's predictable. That makes sense. My love for you isn't so logical.
But you are logical, aren't you, my love? Of all the numbers, you are the only one who has the same number of letters that equals you. FOUR. There are four letters in four. No other number can say that. Not one, not two, not three, not five, not six, not seven, not eight, not nine, not ten. Just...you. Four.
I love quarters because of you. They're my favorite coins. If I count four of them, I get a dollar. In a lot of places, I can purchase a soda from a machine with them. With four of them. Four beautiful quarters, that together make a whole.
I love the square--how four equal sides combine so...equally...to make such a beautiful, four-sided shape.
My name even sings your praises, oh beautiful number 4. My first name has four letters. My middle name has four letters. My last name, oh, my last name has eight letters, which is like four, only DOUBLED. My full name, oh it has sixteen letters. FOUR, FOUR TIMES. The perfect equation for a name.
Yes, 4, I love you. Love has four letters. I don't think that's a coincidence. So I'll say it four times. I love love love love you number 4.
Ahem.
Uh...
So do you have a favorite number? Do you know why, or like me, are you just weirdly obsessed with a certain number for no apparent reason?
Four.
Four, I love you. You are just the perfect number.
I don't even really know why I feel for you the way that I do. Perhaps it's the way you almost look like an A, but then you stop looking like an A and become a 4. Perhaps it's the way you come right after three and right before 5. Perhaps it's because you're made from four 1s, from two 2s. Perhaps it's the way two of you become 8, or four of you become 16. Those numbers, all the numbers that you make are special. But none is more special than you.
No, number four, I know not why you are my favorite number. The six year old I watch loves the number six. In a few weeks, when she turns seven, her favorite number will be seven. That's predictable. That makes sense. My love for you isn't so logical.
But you are logical, aren't you, my love? Of all the numbers, you are the only one who has the same number of letters that equals you. FOUR. There are four letters in four. No other number can say that. Not one, not two, not three, not five, not six, not seven, not eight, not nine, not ten. Just...you. Four.
I love quarters because of you. They're my favorite coins. If I count four of them, I get a dollar. In a lot of places, I can purchase a soda from a machine with them. With four of them. Four beautiful quarters, that together make a whole.
I love the square--how four equal sides combine so...equally...to make such a beautiful, four-sided shape.
My name even sings your praises, oh beautiful number 4. My first name has four letters. My middle name has four letters. My last name, oh, my last name has eight letters, which is like four, only DOUBLED. My full name, oh it has sixteen letters. FOUR, FOUR TIMES. The perfect equation for a name.
Yes, 4, I love you. Love has four letters. I don't think that's a coincidence. So I'll say it four times. I love love love love you number 4.
Ahem.
Uh...
So do you have a favorite number? Do you know why, or like me, are you just weirdly obsessed with a certain number for no apparent reason?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)