More Fun With Technology

It's a pretty well known fact that technology and I aren't really good happy friends, but lately things have just gone completely crazy-go-nuts.  I've come to the conclusion that technology is allergic to me.

 I haven't had home internet access since this past summer, but that's not a big deal.  I can always go to the library and use their free interwebs.  And that way, I also get to mingle with all the other poor fools who don't have home internet, or who, for whatever reason (coughinsanitycough), just really like public computers.  No, it's not so bad, especially if you like kids who have no concept of personal space and who loudly fart as they're hysterically playing their Nick Jr. games online while mommy sits in the corner grabbing a free half-hour to read her grownsup novels.  ...or if you like large boy-men in their mid forties who mutter to themselves while playing online video games that their mommies said they couldn't play in the basement anymore.  ...or if you just like having to wait in line to get a half hour to check your facebook.  No.  Not so bad.  Just keep telling yourself...not.  so. bad.

Also, earlier this year the cord to my camera broke, which was almost a good thing.  My camera was used when I got it.  I got it in 2005.  So maybe an upgrade wouldn't be a bad idea.  But I was too broke to get a new camera.  I used the camera on my phone, but I didn't have a cord for it either.  And since my phone was not smart, I kind of needed the cord to get anything off it.

But I'm glad I didn't invest in a cord, because recently, my phone died the death.  I figured it wasn't a big deal, and I started using my old Razor.  Don't laugh.  The Motorola Razor was the stuff...back in 2007.  Now...it's like an antique.  And it's really hard to text on that thing.  Do NOT take your qwerty keypads for granted, people.  But THAT doesn't matter anymore, because now my old Razor, the epitome of phones back in 2007, has decided that it's too cool to send texts.  For a while, it decided it was too cool to even receive texts, but I punched it in the face.  Now it will let me see my texts, as long as they're not those fancy shmancy new fangled picture texts.  It's way too cool for THOSE.

And it isn't like I ever got good phone service anyway.  I have always had horrible phone reception in my apartment.  I figured it was because I lived in a black hole that ate cell phone reception for breakfast.  But I have come to realize as of late that whatever it is that keeps eating my cell phone reception only likes to eat cell phone signals from my current provider. 

I like my provider, for the most part.  I don't want anyone to think I have any hard feelings against them whatsoever.  I'm not even going to say their name on this blog, lest someone harbor hard feelings against them on my behalf.  Let's call this cell phone service provider BS&S. 

Since a) my phone stopped working AND my back up phone stopped working well AND my other back up phone (a pre-Razor flip phone that makes me feel like I'm signalling Scotty on the U.S.S. Enterprise to beam me up) wasn't working AND neither of the TWO phones I borrowed wanted to work for me either (technology is allergic to me), I decided it was time to get a new phone, and b) BS&S wasn't working for me either, I decided it was time to get a new phone service.  I'm still on my family plan with BS&S, and so I asked my dad to look into cancelling the plan.  I knew my contract with them doesn't expire till the end of this month, but when my dad talked to the nice people at the store, they said I could get out of my contract early.

So I did my research and decided to go with a new prepaid plan from Walmart, because let's face it, I'm a Walmart kinda girl.  Their StraightTalk phones use different providers, so I made sure I was getting a phone that didn't use BS&S.  I made sure I got a phone that used the same cell towers as my new roommate, because she gets excellent reception.  It's not a dumb phone.  It's a Smart Phone.  In fact, it's probably smarter than I am.

Now, I had to call BS&S to cancel my service before I could set up my new phone and StraightTalk plan (because I want to keep my old number--just because I'm lazy and stuff).  Well, BS&S was all like, "You no can has."  My dad called them, too, reminding them that he'd been told the contract could be cancelled early.  My dad also reminded them that he'd already paid the bill through the end of the contract, so they had their money and everything.  BS&S was all like, "I'm sorry, Dave, I'm afraid we can't do that...unless you pay us $60 bucks in cancellation fees."  I was like, "Can't you cut me a break, because my dumb phone broke and my even older dumb phone has a talking bird in it like on the Flinstones, and I would really like to be able to use my new awesome Smart Phone.  It's Christmas, after all!"  They were all like, "We own your butt until December 28.  Merry Christmas."  Please remember, I hold NO ill will against BS&S.  None.  At all.  Just keep telling yourself...none...at...all.

So basically, I'm going to be flipping open my awesome retro only barely functioning Razor for another couple weeks.  It's not so bad.  I mean, the way I see it, they'll be using them in the future.  Captain Kirk will be using them to tell Scotty to beam him up.  And then, Captain Picard will get the great idea to have people wear badges that have communicators inside of them.  In fact, I'm going to just beat the trend and start wearing my cell phone on my shirt. 

...or I'll just keep using my old Razor that won't let me text for a couple more weeks.  And just keep telling myself it's not. so. bad.

Embarassing Confession #12: Do You Want Taxes With That?

So when I was a little girl, Ronald Regan was president.

...but I was like four and really confused...

...and I totally thought this guy was leading our country:

 

 

 

I would vote for him.

SAA Epi.# 71: Doily Angst

I’ve blogged here before about how I’m kind of one of the guys.  Back in college when I had a lot of single guy friends, I felt way more comfortable hanging out with a group of them than I did with a group of girls.  I’d rather watch “The Matrix” than a chick flick (unless it’s “While You Were Sleeping” featuring mid-90’s version Bill Pullman.  And his hair).  I’d rather do guy stuff than girl stuff.

 That’s not to say that I’m not girly.  I mean, I have a ribbon collection.  A ribbon collection, I tell you.  With ribbons. 

 

I like colors.  I like new dresses.  I like tea parties.  I like glitter.  I like kitties.  I love flowers, and I’m stoked that the current fashion trends allow for (and even encourage) big poofy flowers.  Seriously, when the trend finally fades away, I’m still going to keep wearing big poofy flowers.  It’ll be like back in the 80s when I got made fun of for wearing bell bottoms with disco roller skate patches.  Eventually, I succumbed to the tight rolling, but not because I liked it.  I fell into the whole peer pressure racket.  But no more.  Never again. 

 

They may take away my bell bottoms, but they will NEVER take my POOFY HAIR FLOWERS!!!!!  AAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHH!

 Yeah.

 And now that I’m older and all the guys I know are married, I have been forced to hang out with other ladies more.  I’ve found that they’re pretty cool, too, in small doses.  And just so long as they don’t force me to watch some Kate Hudson flick about feelings.

 See, the thing is, I think that whenever you get too much estrogen together in an enclosed space, bad things happen.  It’s probably also dangerous to have too much testosterone together in an enclosed space, but the consequences are very different.  For instance, if you get a bunch of guys together, there might be a bar fight.  Bar fights, from what I’ve surmised from watching non-chick flick movies—and my favorite episode of the original Star Trek, “The Trouble With Tribbles--are whimsical events involving 1) alcohol, 2) Irish fiddle music, 3) lots of guys hitting each other and throwing each other around for no apparent reason.  There might be a black eye or two, but it’s all in good fun.  A day or two later, after the swelling goes down and the hangovers wear off, everyone is friends again. 

 But when you get a room full of women together and their estrogen mingles, terrible things happen.  Perfectly innocent flowers, which could have been used to make future fashionably questionable hair accessories, become table arrangements.  Glitter, which could have been put to nobler use, is scattered upon a table top.  In fact, this glitter is now sold in packages purposed only to be scattered upon tabletops.  It’s name?  Table Scatter.  The horror!  And don’t get me started on doilies.

 Uh oh.  You got me started on doilies.

 Doilies.  They're lace soaked in malice and coated in evil.  First off, what’s with the word “doily?”  It’s like someone wanted to make the sissiest sounding name in the world.  If I didn’t know what a doily was and someone just randomly said, “Doilies don’t make good frisbees,” I’m pretty sure I’d know what they were talking about.  The very name sounds like a flimsy lace thingy that doesn’t serve any particular purpose besides making things look ridiculously feminine. 

 Ok, so not all doilies are bad.  My former roommate had a doily.  I didn’t hate it.  I didn’t like it.  I was indifferent to it.  It was a non-threatening doily.  It sat on my little round table underneath the lamp and minded its own business.  I wish all doilies were like this.

 But no.  Most doilies are vicious.  They are vicious in ways that only purposeless, overly-feminine, estrogen-overdose-induced things can be.  These are the doilies that don’t sit neutrally under a lamp in the comfort and safety of my own home.  These doilies make themselves known.  They garnish the tables of women’s events at churches.  They demand your attention, saying, “Behold!  I am a doily!  I exude femininity, and if you are a woman, you must love me, or else be SHUNNED!" 

 

I’m onto you, evil doily scum.  I GRR at you.

 Every time I see a doily advertising a women’s event, it makes me angry.  Why?  It’s the implication that all women have to like frilly things.  In my mind, it all leads to the implication that all women are the same and have to like the same things.  When there’s a woman’s event, I have to like it and attend it because I’m a woman.  When some syrupy voiced woman starts talking about women’s issues in Scripture, I have to both relate to and agree with everything she says (no matter how weak the theology).  Well, guess what.  I don’t like Beth Moore studies, and I don’t care who knows it.  I can’t stand listening to that Proverbs 31 Ministries woman who has these 30 second blurbs on KLOVE radio.  I don’t like women’s retreats.  I don’t like getting my nails done or…~shudder~…massages.  I don’t like recipe swaps.  I DON’T LIKE NO STINKIN’ DOILIES*.

 Ahem.

 Yeah, so, um, yeah…I’m knitting a lot these days.  I’m, uh, making some scarves for a Women’s Expo at my church.  It’s happening in October.  There’s going to be a lot of estrogen there.  And maybe a few doilies. 

 Me?  I’m selling scarves, not doilies.  Scarves.  And also hair flowers.  Come buy one and in a few years, when they’re as fashionable as bell bottoms in the late 1980s, wear it and think of me.

 

*Please note that I’m not saying that it’s wrong for people to like doilies.  If you like doilies and/or any of the other feminine stuff I “hated on” in this blog, don’t stop liking it on my account.  You see, I was once pressured into the silly habit of making the hem of my pant legs adhere as closely to my leg as humanly possible, even though it made me look like a pale, short, long haired version of M. C. Hammer; I don’t want to pressure anyone.  I’ve just found that some doilies seem to be more than the innocent pieces of lace that they appear to be.  I just want to reveal the truth.  The truth about doilies. 

 

What you do with that truth is up to you.

 

Husband Questionaire

It has come to my attention that, while I don’t *need* a husband, having one would be beneficial to me in a variety of ways.  Therefore, I thought it prudent to start accepting husband applications to qualified members of the human male population. 

This is not an application.

What I have compiled here is a questionnaire that will help potential husband applicants determine whether or not they should even bother applying for the position of my husband.  The higher the score, the more likely you are to be a good potential candidate for my husband.  The lower the score, the more likely you should forget it and go cry into a tub of Ben & Jerry’s.  Even if you are not interested in applying to be my husband, please read the following rating guide, just in case you know of any eligible men who might be suitable for the position. 

Ruth’s Potential Husband Questionnaire:

1. Are you a straight human male between the ages of 28-40? 

[If you answered yes, you don’t get any points, but if you answered no, then give yourself negative bazgillion points and go home, stopping by your nearest Ben & Jerry’s dealer along the way.]

2. Do you have what others have described as “mad guitar skillz”?

[No= 0 points, Yes= +200]

3. Do you have a full time job with health insurance benefits that you can pass on to your hypothetical spouse and children?

[No= 0 points, Yes= +500]

4. Do you have an Australian and/or Scottish accent?

[No= 0 points, Australian Accent= +150 points, Scottish Accent= +175 points, Australian AND Scottish Accent = +20 gazmillion and 3 points.  Irish Accent= +25 points, British Accent= +50 points, Jamaican Accent= +15 points. French accent= -75 points]

5. Would you be willing to either hire a maid or clean up after your absent-minded, writer-brained wife?

[No= -15 points, Yes= +25 points]

6. Do you like The Princess Bride?

[No= -25 points, Yes= +25 points, “AS YOU WISH”= 472 points, “Is that a kissing book?” = -75]

7. Do you mind if your wife quotes the entire movie while you’re watching The Princess Bride?

[Yes= -10 points, No= +15 points, “Anybody Wanna Peanut?”= 132 points]

8. Do you like it when people randomly burst into song all the time?

[Yes= +75 points, No= 0 points, “Ugh! I can’t stand it!” = -5 trillion points, “Mind if I join you? I can sing and dance like Gene Kelly” = +800 points]

9. Do you like kitties?

[No= -45 points, Yes= +25]

10. Do you like kitties as much as the crazy old cat lady who lives down the street?

[No= 0 points, Yes= -300]

11. How do you feel about Dragons?

[“Meh”= 0 points. “Dragons are stupid”= -75. “I like Dragons”= +25. “I LOVE Dragons”= +100. “TROGDOOOOOOOOR!” = +4 million

12. Are you faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, and also a mild-mannered reporter who works for the Daily Planet?

[No= 0 points, Yes= +500]

13. Do you have the ability to use Saran Wrap without getting it stuck to a) itself, b) you, c) everything besides what you want it to stick to?

[No= 0 points, Yes= +75]

14. What is your opinion of the Beatles?

[“Little black bugs? You spelled it wrong” = -200 points, “No sir, I don’t like them” = -150 points, “They’re okay.” = 0 points, “I love the Beatles!” = +100 points, “I died a little when I heard that George Harrison was dead” = +150 points, “They’re the best band ever, but I’m not a huge fan of John Lennon without the other three” = +250 points]

15. Do you like kids?

[No= -300,000 points, Yes= +100 points, “I want to adopt enough kids to close down an orphanage” = +500 points]

16. Do you like the beach?

[Yes= 0 points, “Um, yeah…everyone loves the beach! What kind of idiot doesn’t love the beach?” = -250 points, “No, I have a basic understanding that some wonderful, beautiful, talented, intelligent people are so horrifically pale that going to the beach even for a few minutes can cause third degree sunburns, I don’t like sand, and besides, I much prefer the mountains” = +400 points.

17. Do you like the mountains?

[No= -100 points, Yes= +100 points, “I want to see mountains again, Gandalf…MOUNTAINS!!” = +1000 points

18. Are you good at fixing cars?

[No= 0 points, “No, but I’m good at taking cars to the mechanic because I know you don’t like to do it” = +150, Yes = +300]

19. Cooking?

[“That’s woman’s work” = -200 points, “That thing with the slots is called a ‘toaster,’ right??” = -50 points, “I make a mean grilled cheese” = +10 points, “I accept that my wife is not a gourmet chef and also has a healthy obsession with calories and spaghetti squash, and I will either eat whatever she serves me or make my own stupid sandwich” = +100 points, “I am a nutritionist who can not only feed myself, but provide healthy, delicious meals and snacks for my wife and family” = +700 points]

20. Exercise?

[“I don’t mind if you exercise, as long as you don’t mind if I’m an unhealthy slob” = 0 points,  “You ran a half-marathon? Why didn’t you run a full marathon, you lazy slacker?” = -100 points, “I insist that you run with me and that you keep up with my 7 minute mile pace” = -75, “I like to exercise, but not with other people.  I hope you understand” = +75, “I’ll watch the kids while you go train for a race, dear” = +250 points, “I’ll run with the kids in the stroller and train for a race with you, dear” = 1732 points]

21. Bananas?

[“Huh?” = -12, “In Pajamas!” = - 42 billion, “Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring BANANA PHONE!” = +200 points]

22. Star Trek?

[“It’s for nerds.” = -15, “It’s for nerds.  I’m a nerd.” = +1701, “I see what you did there.” = +an additional 100 uber nerd points on top of the points for already being nerdy]

23. What is the air speed velocity of an unladen swallow?

[“I don’t know that! AAAARRRRRGGGGHHHH!” = 0, “Blue…no yellllooooowwwwwaaaaaarrrgh!” = 0, “What do you mean, African or European?” + 3 points…I mean 5.”

24. If you were going to buy your lady a present, you would buy her….

[“Something frivolous and sweet, like flowers, which will die in a few days because my lady has a brown thumb” = +3 points, “Something frivolous and sweet, like artificial flowers, with my full understanding that she will probably take them apart and try to make crafts out of them later” +15, “Something expensive like diamond jewelry, which could have been money better spent on doing something charitable for others = -15 points, “Something functional like a hair dryer, because my lady’s hair needs some serious help” = +10, “Something fun that she actually asked for like a dvd or book” +25, “Something meaningful and inexpensive, like cheap jewelry that I know she’d like.” +50, “I’d rather spend time with her instead of money, because she would rather have that.” = 100 points, “Something expensive that she needs and can’t afford right now, like a computer or house or a car that doesn’t make funny noises” = 200

25. Are you ticklish?

[No=  0, Yes= +30]

26. Do you know where you put your shoes?

[Yes= +25, No= 0, “Um, isn’t it your job to remember where I put them?” = -100 points]

27. Ketchup?

[“It’s a vegetable” = -30, “It’s okay” = 0, “I put it on EVERYTHING!” = -200, “UGH! Why would anyone DO that to a perfectly delicious tomato?” = +100]

28. When Frodo becomes too weak to carry the One Ring, what do you do?

[“I don’t know.  I never saw the movie.  …wasn’t there a book, too, or something?” = -4,000 points, “Beat down the nasty Hobitses, bite off his fingerses, grab the Precious, hold it over my head in triumphses, dance like a mad fool, and fall into the fires of Mount Doom.” = -12, “Take it for myself and use it for good.  It works like that, right?” = -16, “Um…wait for Gandalf.  He’ll know what to do.” = -2, “The Eagles should be coming along any minute…?” = +2, “I can’t carry it for him, but I CAN carry him!” = +57 million

29. Is your name actually Samwise?

[No= 0, Yes= +100]

30. Do you insist on opening car doors for your lady?

[No= 0, “Yes, absolutely, all the time.” = -100, “If my lady likes it, I will, but I understand that not all women are the same, and some don’t like that.” +500]

31. Toilet paper: over or under?

[Over = +25, Under = -25]

32. Would you rather be a large duck in a small pond, or a small duck in a large pond?

[“A large duck in a small pond” = 0, “A small duck in a large pond” = 0, “Why would I want to be a duck?” = 97]

33. Hugs?

[“No.” = -100, “Sure” = +50, “Not drugs!” = +100]

34. What would you do for a Klondike Bar?

[“I hate chocolate” = -10, “I don’t know” = 0, “Some ridiculous feat they asked me to do on a commercial” = -5, “Um, I’d go to the store and BUY one.” = +15]

35. How do you feel about Eeyore?

[“Who’s that? The horse from Winnie the Pooh?” = -87, “Aww, that guy is SUCH a downer! Cheer up, crankypants!” = -300, “He’s cute, but I wish he would smile more.” = -100, “Eeyore is awesome. So few seem to realize how joyful the guy really was.  He was happy to receive nothing more than a broken balloon and empty hunny pot on his birthday.  He was just so happy to know that his friends loved him enough to try.  That’s what I call a positive attitude!” = +100]

36. Chick flicks?

[“I hate them all” = 0, “Chick flicks are so romantic!  Let’s watch them and snuggle.  Then I’ll paint your toenails and we can eat cookie dough.  TEE HEE!” = -300, “I can tolerate the classics, and honestly, some of them aren’t too bad.  But in general, not so much.” = +50, “Lucy Moderadtz, I’ll be your Jack Callaghan.” = +38 bazgillion

37. Do you know the muffin man?

[No= 0, “Yes, he works at the bakery” = 0, “Who lives on Drewry Lane?” = +63]

38. Can you understand math well enough to help a hypothetical child do their seventh grade math homework?

[No= -10, “No, but we can hire a tutor” = +50, “Yes, I’m good at everything math and science” = +100]

39. What do you think of when I say “Buttercup?”

[“Didn’t we already have questions about The Princess Bride?” = +50, “Mmm, Reese’s Peanut Buttercups!” = +50, “My little buttercup, has the sweetest smile!” = +50, “Flower?” = -12]

40. Fairy Tales?

[“Are for kids” = -200, “Are for kids, and I’m a kid!” = +100, “Are better when people try to modernize them.” = -100, “C. S. Lewis thought they were important.  Works for me.” + 200]

41. Elmo?

[“That little furry monster is hilarious! I could tickle him all day long!” = -250, “I can’t stand him.” = 0, “I don’t like him personally, but the fact that he can keep a room full of two-year-olds occupied for twenty minutes is, quite frankly, amazing.  And also, how does a big guy like Kevin Clash make himself sound like that?” = +150]

42. What is the meaning of life, the universe, and everything?

[“We will never know.” = -50, “God” = +10 points for trying, “42.” = +42 points.]

Now total up your crazy points:

-If you scored below zero, especially in the neighborhood of a negative bazgillion points, then please remember to pick me up a pint of Phish Phood when you’re getting your conciliatory Cherry Garcia.

-If you scored somewhere between +1 and +1000, then you are permitted to take me to dinner and a movie, but only because it would be nice to get free food and a show.  It’s not like we’re meant to be or anything.

-If you scored over 1000 but less than bazgillion, then hey, I’ll give you a shot.  You can buy me free food and take me to free shows all you want.  Unless I actually find a Scottish/Australian hunk named Samwise who loves Dragons like a fat kid loves cake.  If I find a guy like that, then you can join the Ben & Jerry’s club, ‘cause I’m going to drop you like you’re hot.  But not like Samwise Gamgee hot.  More like spaghetti squash hot.

-If you scored in the neighborhood of a bazgillion points, then dude.  I don’t believe you exist.  1) Because awesome guys like you don’t exist outside of works of fiction, and 2) even if you did exist, I’m pretty sure someone else would have already snatched you up. But if you do exist and are still, in fact, single, then I’d like to snatch you up before someone else does.  So…call me…

…maybe…

Life Under Construction: AKA My Fridge is In My Living Room

Sorry for the lack of posts this summer.  You see, metaphorically speaking, my fridge is in my living room.  Literally speaking, my literal fridge was literally in my literal living room for a few days.  But given the weirdness and general topsy-turvyness that has composed my summer, I must admit that I still very much feel as though my fridge is in my living room, even though the nice man who speaks very little English moved it back into the kitchen after he was through tearing up my kitchen floor and piecing it back together from non-termite-infested wood...but I digress.

Once I have metaphorically moved my metaphorical fridge back into my metaphorical kitchen, I plan on recording the awkwardness of my crazy-awesome life as I previously have recorded it for all of you to see.

But sometimes your fridge is in your living room, and sometimes that's okay.  And sometimes it's okay to take some time to figure it all out again.  Whether that means hiring a nice man who speaks very little English to come move your fridge back for you, or whether it means just redecorating your living room to accommodate the new fridge decor, life will get back to some kind of normal.

Unfortunately for me, but fortunately for my readers, my kind of normal is often pretty awkward and unusual.  But I like it.

Until I figure out what normal is, stay tuned...thanks for your patience.

Embarrassing Confession #11: Operatic Hippy

I have a problem.

Okay, so that might be the biggest understatement of the year.  I, in fact, have multiple problems…like my obsession with hair flowers…or my personal vendetta against Saran Wrap…or my consumption of what might be considered to be disturbing amounts of tea….

Yes.  I’ve got issues.  I’m pretty sure everyone is aware of that by now.  I’ve made peace with it.  I really have.  I used to look in the mirror and think, “Wow…that girl is a frizzy-haired, freakishly pale basket case.  Like, I mean, a whole stinkin’ case of baskets.” 

The world of motivational posters and mid-afternoon Public Service Announcements gave me messages like, “Believe in yourself,” or some other nonsense that was supposed to make me actually think that I was not, in fact, a whole case of baskets.  But they didn’t work.  I never had one of those moments where I looked in the mirror and said, “Wow…that girl is awesome because she’s no longer a frizzy-haired, freakishly pale basket case.”  I’ve never been able to really believe in myself, and I’m okay with that, because I do believe in God.  And I figure that God made me to be a frizzy-haired, freakishly pale basket case, and He probably made me this way for a reason.  So now, I look in the mirror and still see the same person, only I kinda think she’s neato-mosquito, because God did (and is still doing) a good job with her.

I also use phrases like “neato-mosquito,” which is also problem, but it’s not the problem I want to discuss at this particular moment in time.

The problem I have has plagued me for most of my adolescence and all of my adult life.  I’ve been singing in church choirs and such since I was probably about three years old, but it wasn’t until I got to high school that I realized I had a problem.  Now, while I love to sing and often randomly burst into song in public…and in private…and pretty much all the time, the love of singing isn’t the problem.  Not at all.  People seem to like hearing me sing (I'm convinced that God gave me a decent singing voice because my constant singing would be even more annoying if I couldn't carry a tune), even when I’m singing at what others might consider to be inappropriate times (What? You don’t sing while you’re doing laundry?).  But…well…okay, so here it is.

Since I passed puberty and got my big girl singing voice, there has come a time in every choral or vocal experience when I’ve had “The Talk.”  “The Talk” always goes something like this:

Musical Person of Some Sort (or MPOSS—that sounds like a really cool rapper name, but I’m getting off track): Hey, Ruth, could you come here?

Me: (nervously…because I feel like I’m being called to the musical equivalent of the principal’s office) Um…okay.

MPOSS: I wanted to talk to you about your singing.  First off, you have a beautiful voice.

Me: Thanks you.

MPOSS: But…

Me: *GULP* (Here it comes…)

MPOSS: About your vibrato…

Me: *SIGH* (Oh noes! Not again!)

MPOSS: It doesn’t always suit the style of song we’re singing.

Me: I know, I know, I….

MPOSS: And there’s been some concern that your outrageous vibrato is causing earthquakes in Siberia.

Me: Harsh.

MPOSS: I realize you were probably trained to sing that way in voice lessons, but….

Me: I never had voice lessons.

MPOSS: (Pause) Oh.  Then you just like the way it sounds?? 

Me: No.  Look, I’m not TRYING to sing with vibrato.  I’m really, really not.

MPOSS: (Another pause) Really?  Well, I guess that’s a relief.  I thought you were doing it on purpose.  I thought maybe you were trying to take “Blessed Be Your Name” to a-whole-nother level or something.

Me: No, no.  It’s just the way I sing.

MPOSS: Well, can you sing...a little differently?  Without the vibrato?

Me:  I’ll try, but…I can’t make any promises.  I can’t seem to control the vibrato.

MPOSS: You can’t?

Me: I guess you could say that the vibrato controls me.

MPOSS: (Yet another pause) Well, keep trying.  Last week one of the deacon’s glasses lenses shattered during the offertory, right when you hit a wavering high note.

(Just for the record, it’s really not possible for glass to shatter just because someone sings a wavering high note.  They proved it to be impossible on Myth Busters.  Now you know.)

I’ve had more than one of these conversations.  I’ve also gotten random comments on my vibrato, ranging from, “Not so much vibrato, Ruth” to “Gee, Ruth, everything isn’t an opera.”  I can’t help it.  Ever since I got my big girl singing voice, I’ve had a big fat trembling vibrato that’s gone with it, astounding and perplexing spectators and fellow musicians, alike. 

A few years ago, I was playing a game called “Karaoke Revolution” with some friends.  The point of the game is to match pitch on all the notes at all the right times.  I confused the video game because it didn’t know how to process a vibrato of my caliber.  And I lost.

I lost hard.

Stupid vibrato!  Why must you torment me?!?  Why are you an ever-present thorn in my side…or in my vocal chords???

My friends were right.  Everything is not an opera.  Unless I sing it.  Because with all my years of singing, there are only two vocal styles I have mastered.  The first, of course, is opera.  Which is pretty much only useful if I’m pretending to be Christine Daae…which actually happens more than one might think…

The other vocal style I’ve mastered?  Well…I can’t bust out any contemporary styles, but give me a guitar, and I can break away from the opera curse for a while.  I can strum that guitar and start singing stuff that would make the Partridge Family jealous.  I can sing like a hippy, yo.  A bad hippy, of course, but a hippy none-the-less.  I’m sure the vibrato is still there, lurking in the shadows, waiting to come out, but I think it sulks and remains dormant for a while because it is offended by my horrendous guitar playing.  Also, I kind of think it gets annoyed when I sing about sunshine, flowers, puppy dogs, and rainbows.

So, there you have it. 

I’m an operatic hippy.

In fact, I’m a frizzy-haired, freakishly pale, operatic hippy. 

And also a whole case of baskets.

And I still think God did a pretty good job.

Neato-mosquito.

And, oh, what the hey…

Awesome possum, too.

SAA Ep. #70: Disco, Olympics, and Bears! Oh, Pie!

I’m back.  Did you miss me?  Sorry for not posting very much, but I’ve been busy.  I was preparing for a trip, then I actually went on a trip, and I’ve spent the past week recovering from a trip—and also working like a mad dog.  And mad dogs work a lot, apparently.

So what’s new since my last socially awkward adventure?  Oh, yeah.  I ran a half-marathon.

 If you’ve known me for more than a year and a half, you might be able to appreciate the humor in that last sentence.  Lots of people run half-marathons.  I just never thought I’d be one of them—or even have any kind of interest in being one of them.  But last year, the running bug bit me, and I decided I wanted to be one of those running people.  And now I’ve got a bumper sticker on my car to prove that I’ve run a half-marathon.

...this is also proof that I'm half sane, right?  Right?

Okay, okay.  So having a bumper sticker isn’t really proof.  I mean, anyone can go online and purchase a bumper sticker that claims he/she ran a half-marathon, or ran a full marathon, or won a pie-eating contest, or whatever.  That’s what I did (not for the pie-eating contest, but now that I’m thinking about it, I really could go for some pie).  It’s just that I waited until I’d actually run a half-marathon before going online and purchasing a bumper sticker that implies I ran a half-marathon.  You’ll just have to take my word for it.

Well, okay, there is one other thing I have that proves I ran a half-marathon.  It’s the shiny medal they gave me. 

Yes, but where will I wear it?

I remember when I first decided I wanted to run this particular half-marathon.  I chose it because 1) I was where my sister lives, which gave me a good excuse to visit my family while also crossing “win a pie-eating contest run a half-marathon” off my hypothetical bucket list; 2) It was a week after Mother’s Day, my dad’s birthday, and my oldest niece’s birthday (which all conveniently coincided on the same day this year), which gave me an opportunity to belatedly celebrate these occasions; 3) This was one of those half-marathons where they gave you medals if you completed the 13.1 mile race.

I’m not sure if most half-marathons come with medals or not.  They probably do.  But since I was (and still am) kind of new to the whole running scene, the whole medal thing was pretty impressive to me.  I remember reading about the half-marathon online, then turning to my roommate and exclaiming, “If I finish the race, I’ll get a medal!  It’ll be like I’m winning the Olympics!”

My roommate gave me the “bless your heart” look.  And I deserved it.

Well, it wasn’t much like the Olympics--there was no podium.  A volunteer just uncerimoniously handed me the medal and a bottle of water.  And I didn’t really win.  I actually came in 1732^nd place.  If they give gold medals to 1^st place, silver medals to 2^nd place, and bronze medals to 3^rd place, then I figure my 1732^nd place medal should have been made out of a spork.  But it was a nice medal cast from something far more substantial than plastic eating utensils, and everyone who finished the half-marathon got one.  Hmm, when I think about it, it’s like those little cheap-o medals they make for kids’ parties that say “WINNER.”  Everyone gets one; everyone’s a winner; everyone is special.  Aww.  My medal should just have “I PARTICIPATED” engraved on the front.  I don’t know whether to feel a little ashamed that I got the same medal as the people who finished 1^st, 2^nd, 3^rd, etc. place, or whether I should be angry that the slowpoke who finished 2439^th place got the same medal as me.  Yeah.  Yeah.  1732^nd place doesn’t sound so bad now, does it?  Okay, so it kinda does.

BUT, despite my epic slowness, I still beat the goal I had set for myself.  I wanted to run the half-marathon in under 2 hours and 40 minutes.  2 hours, 39 minutes, and 59 seconds would have been perfectly acceptable.  However, I ran the half-marathon in 2 hours, 27 minutes, and 51 seconds.  I ran it in under 2.5 hours, which isn’t really that impressive if you compare me to the people who ran it in under 1.5 hours, or the people who can run a full marathon in under 2.5 hours.  It was still enough to make me call my mom and cry into the phone (my “runner’s high” involves sobbing) after the race was over and I got my results.  I was really happy with my time, but I still didn’t win the Olympics.

Ironically, while I was visiting my sister, the day before the half-marathon, I was riding in a car down some random back road, when we saw some runners being escorted by police cars.  All of the runners were wearing shirts with the Olympic logo, and one of the runners was carrying (I kid you not) the Olympic Torch.  I tried to take a picture.  It didn’t work. 

But anyway, I kinda sorta did have an Olympic moment the weekend of my half-marathon.  Aww.

I also have developed a new appreciation for the Port-a-Potty.  When I crossed the finish line and got my 1732^nd place medal, I began another, much more desperate race for one of those warm claustrophobic smelly germ-ridden upright coffins of evil.  Seriously, they don’t even come with sinks (and it’s like torture for me not to be able to wash my hands after going to the bathroom), but all of the sudden, Port-a-Potties are like my new BFF.  They used to make me shudder, but now I see them at construction sites while I’m driving down the road, and I want to stop and give them a hug. 

Lots of people have asked me if I want to do another half-marathon.  I do.  There are lots of reasons why.  First, I really enjoyed it.  Even if I came in 1732^nd place and was being passed by men and women in their 90s who can run faster than I ever will, I really had fun.  A year and a half ago, I never would have thought I’d get a kick out of running—but there’s something really neat about testing your endurance and doing something you never thought you could.  Even if you’re slow.

Another reason why I want to run another half-marathon?  I want to bring Disco back. 

WHAT YOU SAY?!

Okay.  Here’s the thing.  I wasn’t feeling well the day of my half-marathon, but I didn’t know it until after the race.  I’d been sick the week before and thought I was over it…but I wasn’t.  After the race, I got back to my sister’s house.  I took a shower.  All was well.  But as I was getting dressed, I realized that there was a Disco party going on inside my head.  There was this pulsating dark blob between my eyes that I kept seeing whether my eyes were open or closed.  It was black, but pretty, bright rainbow colors kept flashing around the blackness.  Disco was back!  Oh, yeah!  I was starting to hum, “That’s the Way, Uh Huh Uh Huh, I Like It” when I slowly realized that I really didn’t like it (nuh uh, nuh uh).  I realized that I was starting to black out, and I’d better hurry and finish getting dressed before I passed out.  I started humming a more appropriate Disco number “Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh, Staying Alive,” and I went to lie down.

After about twenty minutes of lying down and not being able to lift my head, my stubborn streak won out (“Oh, No, Not I!  I Will Survive!”).  I was with my family and I wanted to spend time with them, so I got out of bed and lay down in the floor where my nieces and nephews were watching Dinosaur Train.  The Disco lights had stopped flashing, but my head was hurting worse than it ever had before, my stomach was a mess, and I generally thought I was going to die.

A few minutes later, I rushed to the bathroom and puked my guts out.  Then I took a two-hour nap.  Then I felt almost ready to run another half-marathon.

Almost.

So, even after my near-Disco experience, would I run another half-marathon again?

Abso-stinkin-lutely.

Part of me thinks it might even be cool to run a full marathon one day.  If a half-marathon brings Disco back, I figure if I run a full marathon, the Beatles will get back together.

Hmm.

Or maybe I’ll just enter a pie-eating contest. 

Pie-eating should SO be an Olympic sport.

That's me!

SAA Ep. #69: I Can Has Normal Experience?

You know what I want?  Do you want to know what I want?  I mean, do you really, really want to know what it is that I want?  I'd better tell you what it is that I want before I bust into a Spice Girls' song.  Do you know what I want?  I mean besides a book contract...and a cookie that actually burns calories...and a brand new car that runs on laughter...and a million dollars...and the ability to fly...and a handsome husband with mad guitar skillz and an Australian and/or Scottish accent.  ...and a kitty....

I want to be able to run a simple errand like a normal person and have a normal experience.

That's all I want.

I mean, you'd think that awkward social experiences just naturally come with the territory when one has the alter-ego of "Socially Awkward Girl," but it's not like I go out looking for awkward social encounters.  Sometimes I experience awkwardness because I'm awkward, and sometimes it seems that awkward experiences just find me.

For instance, I had two socially awkward encounters the other day.  Both were while I was shopping for groceries, and as you might have read, shopping produces all sorts of opportunities for social awkwardness.  At least it does for me. 

The first awkward encounter was while shopping at an Aldi grocery store.   I've never shopped at this store before, but luckily, a friend had told me about the stores before I ventured out on my own.  Aldis are different because 1) you have to pay a quarter to use the shopping carts, which you are supposed to be able to get back after you return the cart, and 2) you have to bring your own shopping bag or purchase bags at the store.  I got in the store just fine.  I figured out how to put the quarter in the cart; I shopped; I paid for my groceries.  Aldi provides a little grocery bagging area so shoppers can bag their own groceries.  So I bagged my groceries and left the store. 

Then came the time to figure out how to get my quarter back.

I couldn't figure it out.  There seemed no logical way to make my quarter come back.  I asked a couple who were putting their groceries in their trunk.  They said, "Stick the little metal thing in the slot."  Okay.  So I go back to the carts, but I can't figure out which slot they were talking about.  I asked another woman who came up to get a cart.  She had no idea because it was her first Aldi experience, too.  Finally, this 10 year old kid saw that I was having trouble, and he came up and got my quarter back for me, all the while looking at me like I was the biggest moron in the world.  By that time, I was so embarrassed I kind of wish I'd just let the cart keep my quarter. 

That experience came about because 1) I'm socially awkward, 2) I was faced with a new experience, 3) I freak out easily when confronted with new experiences, and 4) I wasn't smart enough to have just run away and accepted the fact that I was never going to see that 25 cents again. 

The socially awkward encounter?  My fault.  Well, it was a little bit the shopping cart's fault for being confusing, but mostly, it was my fault.

The second awkward encounter?  I was shopping at Walmart, my home away from home, the place where I am so comfortable that people often confuse me for an employee.  I made my way to the candy aisle, which is a pretty hopping place.  It was so busy that I had to pull my (free and uncomplicated) shopping cart off to the side and wait for my turn to enter the glorious aisle of sugary confections.  I was talking to my mom on the phone, because for some odd reason I always have to call my mom while I'm at Walmart.  As I was chattering to my mom about my traumatic experience with the Aldi shopping cart, this old guy came up to my cart and tossed in a couple packs of candy bars.  Then he walked away.

In the next 0.5 seconds, several thoughts crossed my mind:
1) That guy didn't see me.  That guy totally thought this was just an empty cart where he could discard the stuff he didn't want!  Dude.  I'm invisible!
2) That guy is probably a secret agent.  He just tossed "chocolate" into my cart, thinking I was his connection.  Maybe his informant told him to look for a lady talking into her cell phone speaking the code phrase, "The shopping cart ate my quarter," and so he mistook me for who he was really supposed to meet.  Whoa.  I feel like Mater in Cars 2.  Whatever you do, do not eat the free pistachio ice cream....
3) By tossing chocolate into my cart, was the old guy telling me I look too skinny?  Maybe if I hadn't been on the phone, he might have shouted something like, "Eat some chocolate, you hippy!"
4) Was that guy trying to give me chocolate because he thinks I'm cute?  That's a little sketch.  He's probably old enough to be my grandfather.  Maybe he's confused and thought I was his granddaughter.  Maybe he's confused and thought I was his wife.  Maybe I should figure out if he needs a ride back to the nursing home.

It turns out, that last thought was closest to the truth, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

It took 0.5 seconds for those thoughts to go through my head, but all I managed to say was, "Um...Mom...uh..." and by that time, the old man was back.  He snatched the chocolate out of my cart and said, "Those aren't for you!"

I laughed and said, "So, Mom, this old guy was either really confused, or he was really trying to mess with me."  Another lady overheard and said, "No, his wife had been standing there a few minutes ago, he wasn't paying attention, and he thought you were her." 

Honest mistake, right?  No harm done, right?

Yeah, but it doesn't change the fact that I can't even buy white Tic Tacs without being bombarded with awkwardness.  In America, land of the free, you'd think a person could buy white Tic Tacs without having to deal with social awkwardness.  Right?  RIGHT?  Sigh.  Even when I'm minding my own business, doing absolutely nothing to create awkwardness, it still seems to find me.

Here's what I'm talking about:

Tonight, when the dad of the girls I watch got home, the first words out of his mouth were, "Ruth, have you seen your car?!?" 

Again, in 0.5 seconds, several thoughts went through my head:
1) A large monkey has taken residence in my automobile's hood.
2) Someone has painted my car orange for no apparent reason.
3) The bumper fell off
4) The door fell off.
5) It 'sploded.
6) It's flying.
7) It's dirty.
8) GASP!  It's clean!?!
9) It's invisible.
10) It turned into a piece of cheese and is being eaten by an R.O.U.S.

Well, as it turns out, what had actually happened was that I had a flat tire.  A flat tire that I had just gotten brand new 2 weeks prior. 

The dad helped me inflate my tire (I keep an air pump in my trunk--because tires and I aren't good happy friends), and I drove it straight to the place where I purchased my tire--and a warranty plan for said tire.

There were no problems with that.  I'd run over a screw at some point (or so they say--I suspect monkies and/or R.O.U.S.es are involved), and it was covered under warranty.  I paid nothing.  The catch?  I had to wait 2 hours to figure this out because the tire place was busy.  So I waited in the waiting area, which was occupied with several out-of-date magazines, a pot of coffee that might have been fresh three weeks ago, a too-loud tv blasting news that no one really cared about, and a dude that I'm going to refer to as...Dude.

So Dude was sitting a few chairs away, minding his own business.  I was minding my own business, too.  I had on my "spinster sweater," was reading my "don't talk to me" book, and wearing my best "I'm antisocial, leave me alone" facial expression.  Dude and I went a good 45 minutes without talking to one another, and that was fine with me.

Then, without any warning, Dude made contact.  "Excuse me?"

I looked up, not bothering to take off my "I'm antisocial, leave me alone" face.

"D'yalasusse?" he said.  Or that's what it sounded like.  I thought he was asking me if I had a tissue, but I wanted to make sure before handing him a pack of tissues.  I always come prepared.  I am a super-hero, after all.

"What?" I asked.

"Do you like sushi?" he asked, enunciating for the hard-of-hearing and/or slow-of-understanding.  I think I might fit both categories.

But I'm especially slow at understanding.  "I like California rolls," I said with a shrug.

"You wanna go get some sushi?" Dude said, raising an eyebrow.

I blinked.  You see, I'm about as oblivious as they get.  I didn't understand what he was asking me.  "Sushi?"

So Dude clarified.  "Do you want to go get some sushi with me?"

Oh. 

First, it's the married guy at the Walmart bakery, then it's Dude from the tire store.  I've been hit on by strangers twice in two months (three times if you count the old guy mistaking me for his wife and trying to give me chocolate...but let's not count him).  This kind of thing can only happen to me, and I'm the person who's probably the least emotionally/mentally equipped to handle it.  Lovely.

In 0.5 seconds, I narrowed down my options.  Fortunately, there were only two:
To eat raw fish with stranger Dude or not to eat raw fish with stranger Dude.  That is the question.

Dude had neither a Scottish nor an Australian accent, and while I am blissfully ignorant to whether or not he possesses mad guitar skillz, I quickly decided against eating raw fish with him.

"Um..." I began, panicking.  Then I did what any socially awkward super hero would do in such a situation. 

"No," I said quickly,  "But I appreciate the offer."  And I literally hid behind my book.  Only now I wasn't wearing my "I'm antisocial, leave me alone" face.  I was wearing my, "For the love of that chubby Michelin Man, would they please get done with Dude's tire issue so we won't have to sit in awkward post-I-shot-him-down silence anymore" face.

The tire gods read my facial expression with mercy and haste.  Dude left about ten minutes after our encounter, leaving me to ponder why why WHY CAN'T I HAVE A NORMAL EXPERIENCE LIKE A NORMAL HUMAN BEING?

Because I'm Socially Awkward Girl.

That's why.

And I think my "I'm antisocial, leave me alone face" is broked.  I need to start wearing a fake wedding band again.

SAA Ep. #68: Many Mes

I've heard it said that everyone has a twin.  Me?  Apparently, I have a lot of them.  I've had strangers come up to me just to tell me that I look like their neighbor's sister's cousin.  I guess I just have "one of those faces."

But I've also been told that I look like certain celebrities.  Maybe those celebrities just have "one of those faces," too.  I don't know.  But the problem with looking like so many different people is that it kind of makes me have a little bit of an identity crisis.  I mean, there's me...but then there's this other person who kind of looks like me.  It's like there are different versions of me walking around.

See, there's me...

The original.  Accept no substitutes.

And then there's the child actress from a beloved 80's science fiction movie, turned drug addict, turned beloved grown-up actress/director, turned Cover Girl model version of me...



Lots of people have told me that I look like Drew Barrymore,
although I haven't gotten it as much in the past few years. 
Personally, I don't see the resemblance, but I'll take it as a compliment.



...and there's the snarky Star Trek Captain version of me...



My real-life mom was the first one to notice my resemblance to
Captain Kathryn Janeway of the Federation Starship Voyager,
which I find ironic, since Janeway could TOTALLY be my Space Mom. 
This, of course, begs the question: Who is my Space Stepdad?

...and then there's the gorgeous red-haired version of me (don't I wish)...



Ok, I have to be honest. 
Only one person has told me I look like Julianne Moore, but it counts! 
I don't really look like her (even when I had red hair),
but a girl can dream.

 ...and then there's the animated rodent version of me...

The resemblance is uncanny.

...and then there's the Middle Earth version of me...

Somehow...Medieval princess hair just isn't as affective when one is wearing a t-shirt....





...and then there's the Hogwarts version of me...

Ok, so no one has ever told me I look like Emma Watson--because I don't.  At all.
But I was Hermione for Halloween one year.



...and the OTHER Hogwarts version of me...



I actually have been told that I look like her.  I'll take it.  I think she's adorable.

...but let's face it...this is the REAL Hogwarts version of me...

...I think I definitely have The Grim....

...and I don't even know what to call this version of me...

It's okay.  We're both pretty fabulous.

...and then there's this...

...after a Dragon and his girl are together for a while, they start to look alike...

...and, of course, Socially Awkward Girl even has a look alike when she's in disguise...





How many versions of you are there??