Embarrassing Confession #8: A Sound Regret

I can make just about any animal sound you could ever possibly want to hear.  My dog and cat impression have fooled dogs and cats around the continental United States--and also a puppy in Thailand.  I can convincingly imitate a horse, a cow, a sheep, a goat (those last two have subtle differences only the experienced animal imitator can hear), a frog, a piggy, and a monkey.  My velociraptor is the stuff of legend.  My elephant imitation has a cult following.

Simply put, you haven't lived until you've heard my rendition of "Old MacDonald Had a Farm."

I could have been a cartoon voice.  I could have been a secret agent.  But no, no.  I'm using my mad skills only to entertain the children I care for.  ...at least that's what I'm telling you.  If I told you anything else, I might have to kill you.

My expertise isn't limited to animal sounds.  I'm a true first soprano, which means I can imitate lots of really high noises, but I'm versatile enough to have been told by more than one person that I'm the best female Sean Connery impersonator they've ever heard.  If you know me in real life and ask me to demonstrate this unique ability, please note that I will pretend I have no idea what you're talking about.

However, there is one sound that I have never been able to duplicate.  I hear other people making this noise, and it fills me with shame.  With all the sounds I have mastered, why does this one sound still elude me? 

No matter how hard I try, I can't sound like Chewbacca from Star Wars.  My best attempt sounded sort of like a seal giving birth. 

And I'm not sure whether to be embarrassed because I can't sound like Chewbacca, or if I should be embarrassed because I'm embarrased that I can't sound like Chewbacca.

It's okay.  I'm awesome enough to be embarrassed about both of these things at the same time.

Socially Awkward Girl: The Graphic Novel!

Last week, it was Superhero Week at the drop-in childcare center where I work.  We did comic books with the kids.  Well, most of them weren't really that interested in drawing their own comic books (which was sad).  But I was WAY into drawing my own comic book (which was happy). 

It is obvious that drawing is not my very special talent, but here's some pics of the comic book graphc novel I made:

The End

?

SAA Ep. #50: A Phlebotomist's Work is All In Vein!

We've already established that vampires do not, in fact, give blood.  Therefore, I am not a vampire.  Also, the kids I babysat last night confirmed that given the fact that I eat food, I cannot be an android.  So, I'm neither an android nor a vampire. 

Also I gave blood on Friday.

I know, I know.  We've already had a socially awkward adventure dealing with a blood drive.  I can't help it if there's excessive awkwardness to be had by going to wait in line to get asked a gazbillion embarrassing questions and then having a big ol' needle shoved in your arm.  That's just how it is, my friend.

I've only given blood twice recently, so maybe I'm jumping the gun, but I really think I've figured out how to have the most socially awkward fun at blood drives.  The key is to wait until the last couple hours of the blood drive.  That way all the people working at the blood drive are tired and starting to get loopy.  Now, please don't misunderstand.  They're still doing their jobs well.  I seriously doubt they got my blood mixed up with another person's blood or anything like that.  They just started acting a little silly and saying whatever came into their heads.  And sometimes that was awkward.

For instance, there was this really nice, seemingly normal lady (RNSNL for short) who came to help me get situated on my medieval torture device blood donation chair.   I was glad it was her and not Hot Guy.  Hot Guy actually wasn't all that hot, honestly, but he was a reasonably attractive 30ish aged man who stuck out like a sore thumb--like an attractive sore thumb--amongst all the 40-50 aged women who were working the blood drive.  But whether Hot Guy was actually hot or not doesn't matter.  I would have had all sorts of awkwardness around him, and to be honest, I was already nervous enough.  Something about getting a needle painfully jabbed up my arm tends to make me slightly less than comfortable, you know....

Anyway, so RNSNL helped me get on the table and put one of those tourniquet things on my arm, all the while asking if there was anything she could do to make me more comfortable.  The first thought that came into my head was, "Well, yes, you could stop cutting off the circulation in my arm," but I figured that was kind of necessary.  Then she gasped.  I immediately looked at my arm, then at her, then at my arm again, expecting to see my own blood gushing out from somewhere.  But no needle had touched my skin at that point.  No, RNSNL was gazing in awe at my arm, as if she had never seen veins before.

"Your veins are exciting!" she exclaimed.  "I never thought I'd say that a person's veins are exciting!"

I gave her a courtesy laugh and thought to myself, "Hmm, I never thought I'd hear you say that, either."

"Your veins are just SO exciting!" she said again.  Then she went off and left me to squeeze a plastic handle in order to excite my veins even more.

A few minutes later, another completely different RNSNL, who was standing by the side of another victim donor, suddenly gasped and started shouting at me.  I looked at my arm.  I looked at her.  I looked at my arm.  No blood.  But she came rushing over to me and yanked off the tourniquet thingy.  "Your fingers were turning purple!  They were the same color as your blouse!" she gasped.  And I suppose my fingers were a lovely shade of lavender, just like the shirt I was wearing.  Apart from being ghastly pale, my skin also changes colors easily.  My fingers felt fine.

So I laughed and tried to reassure the second RNSNL.  "Don't worry," I said.  "My skin changes color."  She looked uncertain, so for some inexplicable reason, I added, "I'm a chameleon." 

The second RNSNL didn't laugh.  I don't blame her.  But before she left to return to her victim donor, she made a point of caressing the inside of my elbow and saying, "You have such pretty veins."

Obviously, I should find a plebotomist (there's your vocab word for the day) convention and start charging admission.  "Twenty dollars!  Twenty dollars to see the girl with the exciting, pretty veins!  And also, I'm a chameleon!"

I was kind of hoping that Hot Guy would come by and notice my veins, but apparently he's a leg man. 

Well, the first RNSNL finally got back with me.  She started rubbing my arm down with iodine, all the while muttering about what a blessing my veins were.  Then she did the necessary needle jabbing and left me to bleed in a baggy.  I'm telling you.  You haven't lived until you've seen your own blood in a baggy. 

Five minutes later, I had the two RNSNLs rush to my side and start frantically clipping things.  Apparently, they weren't ready for me to be done.  The second RNSNL said, "Girl, you are too fast for us.  You're a quick bleeder!"  The first RNSNL said, "Oh, what a blessing!"

Seriously, these people need a vacation.  I mean, I do try to bleed fast.  I kind of like rushing through that whole "there's a needle up my arm" thing.  But they were acting like they had just won the blood donor lottery or something.  I guess if I'm this awesome at giving blood, I really should do it more often.

Then, for whatever reason, the two RNSNLs left me all alone to hold my arm up above my head.  It was while I was in this ridiculous position when Hot Guy finally approached me.  He tenderly wrapped my arm in red stretchy gauze, all the while talking to one of the RNSNLs about how his girlfriend made crappy lasagna.  Frankly, I was getting mixed signals.  Was Hot Guy trying to hint that he had a girlfriend and wasn't interested in picking up chicks at a blood drive, or was he hinting that he would prefer a girlfriend with great veins who also made great lasagna?  Either way, he didn't mention my obviously spectacular veins, and I figured that a blood drive really would be a horrible place for a guy to pick up chicks. 

Unless you happen to be a vampire.  But then picking up chicks might have a-whole-nudder meaning.

You Say "Obsessed" Like It's a Bad Thing (Part Two: RPGs)

Before continuing with this obsession blog series (that is going to end with this part, because I realized after the fact that it's a really stupid idea), I'd like to apologize.  First, because the first part of this was long and boring.  Second, because I haven't written a socially awkward blog post in over a week!  I have excuses and explanations for this, but really, no one cares.  I think that might actually be my next SAA blog: No one cares.  I don't promise it will be the most hilarious thing ever, but it stands a good chance of being funnier than the food obsession blog, and it's guaranteed to be funnier than personally getting hit by a bus. 

Right.

So.

I'm not usually allowed to play computer games.

I'm 31 years old, so it's not like I have to have parental permission to play computer games.  My roommate owns the computer on which I am typing, and I'm sure she wouldn't appreciate me using it to play computer games, but she doesn't have any specific rules. 

The person who doesn't allow me to play computer games (usually) is ME. 

The reason I'm not allowed to play computer games is because I'm the sort of person who forgets to eat, forgets to sleep, forgets to live in the REAL world while she's playing computer games.  Now, we're not talking solitaire.  I can play a 2 minute game of cards without getting caught up in the wild, wild card flippin' action.  In fact, solitaire and repetitive games like that are sometimes good for me because they give my eyes and hands something easy to do while my brain is busy inventing stories and working out plot details--or else just working out details of my crazy crazy life. 

If the game has a plot.  If the game has a story line.  If the game has an objective that requires pretending I'm another person in a new set of circumstances, forgedduhboudit.  I'm a goner.  I can't play these games without getting absolutely addicted.

I know this because I spent probably a couple years of my life playing different role playing games (RPGs) on the computer.  I didn't get into the card games such as Dungeons and Dragons, but man oh man, I was into some of the similar type computer games.  I was all about fake questing it as a Ranger or an Enchanter, traveling with a "party" of fake people through mystical realms, fighting creatures and learning new mad skills.  Friends?  Social life?  Adequate sleep?  Who needed such things!?  I just gained 302 experience points by killing a giant spider!  Woo Hoo!  Dream big!

I even got way into those text based adventure games.  Remember those?  Zork?  The Colossal Cave?  No graphix?  No problem!  "--Hit troll."  "-What do you want to hit the troll with?"  "--Hit troll with sword."  "-You hit the troll with the Splendid Sword.  The Troll eats you.  You have died."  Oh, I love those things.  They're so 80's-riffic, but it turns out that people still write them.  They still have a following.  In fact, I want to write one, but since I'm not allowed to play them anymore, that dream will probably never come true.  But I'm getting ahead of myself...

Yeah.  Eventually I realized how pathetic I had become in my RPG addiction obsession problem fascination.  And I realized that I had to do something drastic or I'd end up living in my parents' house forever so I could not work and still support my gaming habit.  Okay, so I believe my parents actually love me more than that--if I hadn't kicked the habit myself, they would have kicked it for me--by kicking my butt out the front door and making me get a job.  Instead, I kicked myself out by going back to school.  Because I wanted an education that didn't involve beating up zombies.

Only, I have a small confession.  Sometimes I play this game called Plants VS. Zombies.  And sometimes I still beat up zombies.  It's not an RPG, so I can play a level and stop (ANYTIME I WANT, I TELL YOU!).  I can resume my real life, which is mostly zombie free.

It's just that sometimes, when life turns into a monotonous series of actions, I find myself reminiscing those RPG days.  I go to work and stop a kid from crying.  38 experience points.  I swat the elusive fly that's been buzzing around the kitchen for three days.  107 experience points.  I manage to find an hour to write in the middle of a day that's packed with 2-3 jobs.  203 experience points.  I go grocery shopping.  432 experience points.  I successfully pick up/drop off all three kids to whatever soccer practice or after school activity they have without going absolutely bonkers.  3,598 experience points.

I'm well on my way to gaining a new level and getting some more attribute points to spend!  Hmm...I think I could use a little more wisdom.

SAA Ep.# 49: You Say "Obsession" Like It's a Bad Thing (Part One: FOOD)

One of my biggest pet peeves is when a person asks me how I'm doing, and when I reply that I'm "fine" or "okay," the person immediately asks why I'm "just fine" or "just okay," as if there's something horrifically wrong if I'm not "SUPER DUPER!" or something.  The reason for this is that when I'm doing "fine" or "okay," it's actually a very, very good thing. 

I don't think I'm manic-depressive/bipolar or anything that extreme, but my emotional range tends to be, shall we say, kind of dramatic.  When I'm happy, I'm not just happy, I'm OH-MY-GOSH-THIS-IS-THE-GREATEST-DAY-OF-MY-LIFE-CAN'T-YOU-JUST-SMELL-THE-SUNSHINE-AND-FEEL-THE-FLOWERS-AND-SEE-THE-BIRDS-SING-AND-HEAR-THE-RAINBOWS-WHY-CAN'T-I-JUST-BUY-EVERYONE-A-GAZBILLION-STRAWBERRY-SCENTED-PUPPIES sort of happy.  When I'm sad, I'm not just sad, I'm I-HATE-EVERYTHING-SO-GO-AWAY-AND-JUST-LET-ME-LAY-IN-BED-ALL-DAY-AND-EAT-UNHEALTHY-FOOD-UNTIL-I-EXPLODE-TO-DEATH-AND-TAKE-THE-REST-OF-THIS-WRETCHED-WRETCHED-WORLD-OUT-WITH-ME sort of sad.  The good thing about these emotional extremes is that they don't seem to last very long, and I can go from the depths of despair to the awesomest of happies within, oh, about ten minutes.  So, I've learned not to rely on emotions a whole lot.

I try to aim for a nice even emotional state, which is what most people call "fine" or "okay."  "Fine" and "okay" are safe.  They don't depress anyone, nor do they scare people.  So I aim for being fine, because someone as overly passionate as I am needs to be "just okay" sometimes.  Or most of the time.

I've also learned that I need to keep a pretty close watch on my hobbies and interests.  Since I do have a tendency to be overly passionate, I rarely just like things.  I become obsessed with them.  Since I've been obsessed with quite a few things, I'm going to split this SAA Episode into two or three (or possibly four) parts.  For the remainder of this part, I'm going to talk about one of my biggest obsessions.

Most of my obsessions are food related, and I'm actually pretty convinced I have a food addiction.  Please understand, I'm not making light of eating disorders.  I was a psychology minor, so I am well aware that eating disorders can be very serious.  I think I might even have a minor compulsive overeating problem.  So when I say that I have a food addiction, I'm being serious.  It's something I've struggled with my whole life (when I was a teenager, I used to eat until I was full and then go take alka-seltzer so I could burp and eat some more...which is really sick, now that I think about it).  It's just that I tend to see the humor in everything, which includes my own personal eating habits.  I'm not picking on anyone here besides myself. 

And I find it slightly ironic that with food addictions, you can't just go cold turkey (unless that means you're on some kind of weird cold turkey diet).  With drug or alcohol addictions, a person who overcomes the addiction often must completely abstain from the drug or alcohol.  You can't do that with food.  If you stop eating, you eventually die.  So I've had to be super-disciplined in my eating habits, and that's hard.

Cuz I like food.

I think my top ten food obsessions are as follows (in no particular order):

1) Chocolate.  If I have to explain why, then you'll never understand.

2) White Tic Tacs.  I've managed to cut back to about 2 packs a week.  I keep these in the car and eat about twenty of them when I come to a red light.  I've often wondered if other drivers get concerned when they see me popping these little white pill shaped objects. It probably does look suspicious, but I can't help myself.  I just can't get enough of their minty goodness.  They're even better in the spring/summer months because when they heat up in my car, it brings out this amazing warm vanilla flavor that contrasts just perfectly with the cool mint.  Shut the front door! They're amazing.  Plus, I have fresh mint breath ALL the time.

3) Cookies.  Again, if I have to explain why, then you'll never understand.

4) Cupcakes. See 1 and 3.

5) Autumn Mix. Oh, sweet Moses! It's a good thing this stuff only comes out in the autumn, or I'd be a much fatter person.  There's something oddly addictive about the little white, yellow, and orange candy corns combined with the brown and orange candy corns that taste as if they once brushed up against something that might have been made out of a vaguely chocolatey substance.  Add in those sugar-coma inducing mallowcreme pumpkins, and you've got a recipe for made-with-real-honey (really, is that the healthiest claim you can make?) amazingness.

6) Pasta. This.  This is the reason I could never go low-carb.  I'm not a huge bread eater.  I'm not big on cereal.  But I have to have my pasta, or I will hurt someone.

7) Cheese.  Is life without cheese even worth living?  Sometimes I think about how much I like cheese, and it makes me want to cry tears of joy.  Thank you, whoever thought of making something tasty out of old milk.

8) Raspberries/Blueberries.  Raspberries were my favorite berry for years, but now they actually are tied with blueberries.  The fact that I have a favorite berry competition going on in my head should tell you something about me.  I'm not sure what it should tell you, but it should tell you something.

9) Ice cream.  See 1, 3, and 4.  And 9.  I think my favorite kind is Neapolitan b/c you get three, three, three flavors in one!

10) Pumpkin Pie. Include this one with numbers 3 and 5, and you might have an idea as to why I typically gain 10 pounds near Thanksgiving and Christmas.  I think pumpkin pie is my favorite dessert--even if you consider all the desserts made from chocolate.  Seriously.  A nice chilled piece of pumpkin pie with a huge dollop of Cool Whip might be the closest thing to heaven on earth.  It's so good, it'll make you wanna slap your mama.


And lest you think I'm done, my honorable mentions for food obsessions include: toast (I'm not a huge bread fan, but burning bread makes it taste a kazmillion times better.  I don't know why, but it does), sunflower seeds, Greek yogurt, Rice Krispies Treats, tomatoes, oatmeal creme pies, Quaker Life Bars (they call them Life bars b/c you can live off them...and b/c they're made from Life cereal), Cream Cheese, green beans, dill pickles (I'm pretty sure I once ate a whole jar of these in my sleep), rockamole, peanut butter, white chocolate covered pretzels, muffins, cilantro (what do you mean I'm not supposed to put it in EVERYTHING??), Krispy Kreme Raspberry Jelly Filled Donuts, grilled chicken, Goldfish Colors! (I'm dead serious--the natural dye (beet juice) they use in the purple goldfish makes them taste even better than the boring gold goldfish), gingersnaps, s'mores, pizza, green olives, mushrooms, pita chips and hummus, dried fruit, applesauce, turkey bacon, jalepeno cheddar poppers, Nutella, key lime pie (...or any kind of pie, really), almonds, and of course, Swiss Cake Rolls.

...to be continued.

Embarrassing Confession #7: Friends in Low Places

After only a few minutes of consideration (all that was needed), I have come to the conclusion that the vast majority of my friends are under the age of 7.

At least I'm actually taller than most of them.

I'm like...Gigantor!  RAR!

SAA Ep.# 48: The Case for Contacts

When I was sixteen, my life was forever changed.  Did I fall in love?  Did I discover what I wanted to do with the rest of my life?  Did I get crowned Homecoming Queen?  Did I invent Silly Putty?  Did I discover Australia?  No. 

I got contact lenses. 

I'm nearsighted.  That's probably an understatement.  I'm terribly nearsighted, tremendously myopic, and practically blind without the aid of prescription lenses.  Without my glasses/contacts, I can't even see the words on this screen from more than four inches away.  I've been this way for most of my life.  I was that kid in first grade with coke bottle glasses.  And I guess I was cute, except for my parents decided I also needed a boy haircut since neither they nor I wanted to take care of my long princess hair.  Yeah, from 1st grade to 5th grade or so, I looked like a boy.  With four eyes.

And even when I started looking more like a girl, my glasses covered up my eyes.  I was pale, short, overweight, with a big nose and pointy chin.  The only redeemable traits I had were my hair (which I still didn't know how to take care of, so it was pretty much a big poofy mess most of the time--actually, that's still a fairly accurate description), and my eyes.  And no one could see my eyes because I still wore these ginormous 90's glasses.  And I'm pretty sure that while they were not at all the main factor, my glasses contributed greatly to my lack of popularity.

Hmm...with my poofy hair and big glasses, I imagine I looked a lot like a fatter version of Professor Trelawney from Harry Potter.  "You have...the GRIM!"

...she might even be more socially awkward than I am, poor thing...

Speaking of books, in my favorite book by Madeleine L'Engle, A Wrinkle in Time, the main character, Meg Murray, also wears glasses.  And one of my favorite scenes in this book is one of the more romantic ones, where unpopular and awkward 14-year-old Meg goes for a walk in the vegetable garden with popular and athletic Calvin O'Keefe.  She's crying because of some of the other issues in the book, and he takes off her glasses and wipes away her tears.  Then he says something I really like, because (and don't tell anyone this, because it's a well-kept secret) I'm sappy.  He says, "You know what?  You've got dreamboat eyes.  Listen, you go right on wearing your glasses.  I don't think I want anybody else to see what gorgeous eyes you have."  Aww.

And I think that I kind of expected to find a Calvin O'Keefe when I was fourteen--a guy who realized I had "dreamboat eyes" behind my glasses and didn't want anyone else to see them.  Meh.  Not so much.  Calvin O'Keefe never told me I had dreamboat eyes, just like Samwise Gamgee never noticed I wore ribbons in my Professor Trelawney hair.  Stupid fictional boys!  So I figured I'd take matters into my own hands and get contacts so that EVERYONE could see my eyes (and keep wearing ribbons in my hair, just because I like them.  Take that Rosie Cotton!).  One catch.  Mom and Dad didn't want me to get contacts yet.

But finally, the summer before I turned seventeen Mom and Dad let me get contact lenses, and everything changed.  I really believed that only my appearance would benefit from the new contact lenses, and I think my eye doctor realized this.  He even told me that he didn't expect I'd keep wearing them.  He said I'd go back to glasses because "glasses give you a sharper image and are easier to take care of." 

He was wrong, but I didn't know that yet.

I must admit that vanity is what brought me to contacts, but as soon as I placed those contacts in my eyes for the very first time, everything started to change. 

I had been wearing glasses for a decade at that point--since I was six years old.  When I put those contact lenses in, I realized something.  I realized something wonderful.  I could see out of the corners of my eyes.  For the first time in a decade, really the first time in my entire memory, I had peripheral vision.  Glasses could not give me that because they only went in front of my eyes.  At that time, I knew.  I knew I was never going back.

My eyes are pretty sensitive.  They hate too much light and I have to wear sunglasses all the time outside, even if it's rainy.  They also don't like it when something is in them that's not supposed to be.  It took me SIX MONTHS before I could convince my eyes that the contacts were supposed to be there.  I looked like I was crying for six months because my eyes were trying to get rid of the little plasticy things.  But I was determined to get used to them, and get used to them I did.  Yes, it was because of my vanity.  Yes, it was because I discovered that I really kinda sorta liked having clear peripheral vision.  It was also because contact lenses don't fog up, get rain splatters or fingerprint smudges on them, they don't slide down my nose, and they don't get in the way of my sunglasses (Easier to take care of?!  Sharper image?!  No way, eye doctor man!  No way.). 

I can put contacts in every morning and forget they're even there.  With glasses, I'm always seeing the little frames around my eyes.  I see every smudge, every drop of rain.  And let me tell you, when working with kids, it's IMPOSSIBLE to keep them from getting their sticky fingers all over my lenses.  Glasses are such a pain.  I hate them.  I hate the way I look in them, and I hate how much fuss they are.  And did I mention that I like being able to see out of the corners of my eyes?!

I do wish contact lenses were a little cheaper.  I remember the good ol' days before people started throwing their contacts away every few days.  I used to get the non-disposable kind that you could wear for like 2 years (I wore my last pair for FIVE years before one of them tore), but apparently they don't make them anymore.  I guess it's because people are too lazy to actually clean their contacts now.  Sigh.  So now I've got the kind you're supposed to wear for two weeks, and my current eye doctor told me, "If you take care of them, you can just throw them away at the end of the month."  I wear them for longer than a month, usually.  I clean them every night (it's not THAT hard, people) and just wear them until they get so dirty that my vision is worse WITH them than without them. 

And for someone with vision as poor as mine, that's really saying something.