The Socially Awkward ABCs

There’s something I’ve noticed during my time working with children.  Pretty much anyone can write an A-B-C book.  Dr. Suess’ ABCs is the best, in my opinion.  I can recite from "Aunt Annie’s Alligator" to "Five Fluffy Feathers on a Fiffer Feffer Feff."  Yeah.  That man knew how to write an A-B-C book. 

Most of them aren’t that creative.  In fact, most of them are boring.  “A is for Apple.  B is for Bunny.  C is for Cat.”  D is for downright dull.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I should write an A-B-C book.  An A.wkward B.ook of C.haracters, if you will. 

Yeah.  Here goes nothing…

An Awkward Book of Characters:

A is for Awkward, the best way to be,

Even if it causes some slight Anxiety.

Awesome is a word that I really love to say

And Also Aardvark, because it has too many A’s!

B is for Butterfly, though some aren’t very social,

And B is for Bipolar Bear, who sometimes goes postal,

For Bilious, Bungalow, Boorish, and Bree,

And B is for Beaver, which (contrary to popular Belief) isn’t “one who Beaves.”

C is for Cantankerous, it Can’t make up its mind

Whether to sound like sssss in Ceiling, or like Cuh in Climb,

And sometimes it sounds different like in the word Chew.

This is why I prefer kayak to the word Canoe.

D is for Darkness, Depression, Dismal, and Despair.

It also is for Didgeridoo, but that’s neither here nor there.

I often like to talk about the land of Dusseldorf

Because it sounds a lot like the name David Hasselhoff.

E is for an Epic Episode of Embarrassment

Which I Experience a lot because I’m not that Eloquent.

I talk about Erythritol, but nobody really cares.

So I go home and cry and make sugar free Éclairs.

F is for Fail.  I Fail a lot.

I had more to say, but I Failed, and I Forgot.

G is for Gym, Gem, but never Jim.

You’ll have to wait for J to hear about him.

Only, Guess what!  You won’t!  You’re so Gullible!

GYNECOLOGY!  I said that to make you feel uncomfortable.

H is for Handkerchief.  It’s not a kerchief for your Hand.

It’s not Ker, the Hand people tribe chieftain.

I Hear it is for Helping to wipe snot from your nose.

I just call it “snot rag,” which you didn’t want to know.

I is for Idiom, Isosceles, and other cool words

Like Ice and Igloo, but that’s another kind of cool.

Incredulous! Immunity! Igneous! Immense!

Ichthyosaur! I’m so done with this.

J is for Jim; that’s right, I changed my mind.

I said you wouldn’t hear of him, but I lied!

Jim Jumped Jubilantly and Jovially Jeered!

Don’t ask me why.  That guy is Just weird.

K is for Kazoo, which anyone can play.

K is for Kaleidoscope, a colorful display!

K is for Kitten, Koala, Kangaroo,

And K is for a Killer whale that’s going to eat you.

L is for Llama, a word with Lots of L’s!

Okay, so it’s only two…yeah, oh, well.

Look, don’t start with me; L’s a hard Letter.

Let’s just Lumber on and hope M is better.

M is for Marbles, Maybe you have lost some?

There are so Many Marvelous Marbles, and you haven’t got ‘em.

Maniac! Madman! Mayhem! Murder! Machete!

Oh, wait, the one who lost her Marbles was Me.

N is for Neurosis, what happens to be yours?

Are you Narcoleptic, Needle-phobic, Allergic to Norse?

Are you Narcissistic, Non-Committal, None of the above?

No worries.  I think I’m Neurotic enough.

O is for Onomatopoeia, and for animals that use it.

Like pigs that Oink! Owls that hoot! Apes that Ooo-Ooo it.

Ostriches squawk! Ocelots screech! And the Octopus?

Hmm.  I guess it doesn’t make a sound.  Oops.

P is sometimes loud like in Parapet, Politics, Palm,

Sometimes it’s quiet, like in Psoriasis, Pneumonia, Psalm,

It’s a Pretty awkward letter, that starts Psychology,

And there’s nothing more awkward than a Port-a-Potty.

Q is for Queue, that doesn’t look how it sounds,

I blame it on the fact that it has too many vowels.

Quandary is a Q word I like Quite a bit.

But I don’t want to think of any more, so I Quit.

R is for Random! R is also for Ruth!

Whose name Rhymes with Booth and also Tooth!

Couth! Sooth! Youth! Truth! Sleuth!

That guy who did all the cool animated movies in the 1980s and early 1990’s, Don Bluth!

…what just happened here…?

S is for three letters: S. A. D.

It’s an acronym than can mean Several things.

Social Anxiety Disorder, or Seasonal Affectve Depression.

Either way, it’s SAD, and that concludes this Session.

T is for Turtle, hidden There inside its shell.

Maybe its feeling Timid, but who can really Tell?

Maybe its embarrassed because it moves Too slow.

But it won’t come out and Talk to us, so we’ll never know.

U is for Uvula, or “that hangy-downy thing”

That’s inside your mouth; you can see mine when I sing.

It’s an Unusual word to Utter, I hope you Understand,

I call it “that hangy-downy thing” whenever I possibly can.

V is for Vendetta, though I never saw the flick.

Violence and Vengeance kinda make me sick.

Unless it’s Inigo Montoya seeking to avenge his dad….

Or Dr. Lazarus in Galaxy Quest! By Grapthar's Hammer, that dude was rad!

W is for Where’s Waldo?  Doesn’t anybody know?

And Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?

Wait? Why should We search for these Weird peeps?

They probably joined forces and Won’t be seen for Weeks.

X is for Xenophobe.  What?  That’s not what you thought I’d say?

Did you eXpect me to say that X was for something boring like X-ray?

Or perhaps for Xylophone? Yes, that is usually the way.

But X is for Xenophobe.  I don’t like you.  Go away.

Y is for Yellow Submarine, we all live there.

Yes, we’re all breathing compressed Yellow air.

Yaks are Yodeling in Yiddish, Yeah it’s a strange scene.

I wonder what’s in the Yellow air on the Yellow submarine.

Z is for Zinc, take at the first sign of a cold.

Yeah, that’s really lame, but this book is getting old.

So Zip astride your Zebra, or Zag aboard your Zeppelin.

Or just go to ZZZZZZZ. 

We’ve finally reached

SSA Ep.#58: Shoepping

I’m not really a huge fan of shopping.  I mean, I like to buy stuff…especially food.  …especially chocolate.  But I usually restrict my shopping to a few places that make me feel comfortable—like Target, Walmart, and thrift stores.  And because I’m cheap I don’t make a lot of money, I tend not to buy stuff like clothes or shoes unless I really need them…or unless I find a really good deal.  …or if they're really cute.  I kind of think that I have a guy mentality when it comes to my stuff—if it still works and doesn’t have too many holes in it, I might as well just keep what I have.

But recently I had noticed that my casual/work shoes were looking kind of scruffy.  And by scruffy, I mean there were holes in the soles.  (Do not think for one second that it has escaped my notice that “holes in the soles” rhymes.  Also do not think for one second that I have not stored that rhyming phrase in my memory to use in the future.)  All the way through the soles.  There was a hole on top of one of them, too, which came from one of my many failed attempts to play soccer with the girls I watch.  I just figured that hole gave the shoes character.

The holes in the bottom of the shoes, however, did not give them character.  They gave me dirty/wet socks and zero arch support.  So, I had to face facts that it was time to purchase a new pair of shoes.

Also, I’ve been procrastinating waiting till the right time to go to one of those running stores to get some good running shoes.  The ones I had were from Walmart.  I got them for $12.  They were my third pair in the past 10 months because they were crappy shoes, and I kept wearing holes in the soles (it rhymes!) of them, too.   It’s amazing that my legs haven’t fallen off at the knee. (Insert "good running shoes cost and arm and a leg joke here).

Here’s what I’m saying about shoe shopping, or shoepping, as I like to call it.  There have been entire years where I have gone without purchasing a single pair of shoes.  This week, in a bizarre turn of events, I’ve bought not one, but two pairs of shoes. 

I looked in all the usual places for my casual/work shoes.  Neither Walmart nor Target had anything that was both cute and cheap frugal enough for my tastes.  With used clothing, I kind of draw the line at wearing things with other people's foot sweat in them, so the thrift store was out of the question.  So I had to branch out a little….

Since someone had given me a gift card for Macy’s, I decided to head up there and see what they had.  Let me just say that, for me, entering a department store at the mall is kind of like entering the wild unknown.  When I buy something like clothes or shoes, I kind of like the “help myself” mentality.  I like to go up to the rack or shelf, try on things, and figure things out for myself.  Upon approaching the shoe department at Macy’s, it took me about 0.3 seconds to realize that this wasn’t that sort of place.

As soon as I showed the slightest bit of interest in the shoe department in general, at least four shoe department employees popped their little heads up like little store meerkats.  Yes, yes.  They were the meerkats, and I was the juicy grub worm.  I tried to act nonchalant, glancing at the too high price tags on shoes that were way too fancy for my tastes, but I couldn’t keep up the act for long.  The meerkats were closing in.  I knew they wouldn’t let me out without buying a pair of those high priced, too fancy shoes.

I’m ashamed to say that I ran away retreated. 

A couple days later, I went to Payless and bought a pair of shoes in an almost completely non-awkward transaction. 

The only awkwardness?  The bazgillion questions the sales person asked me when I was trying to purchase the shoes.  What’s your phone number?  What’s your email address?  What’s your favorite color? Who is your next of kin? What is the air speed velocity of an unladen swallow?  Seriously, this is why I like Target and Walmart.  They scan my merchandise and tell me how much it is.  I pay for it.  That’s all.  No 20 questions.  Just a normal, happy sales transaction. 

I tried something different this time.  Instead of being compliant, I challenged the system.  I politely told the lady, “I don’t want to tell you my email address and phone number.”  She kind of looked taken aback, but she let me buy the shoes without this vital information, and we were both able to go on with our lives.

The adventure involving the purchase of my running shoes is not really all that impressive.  I went into it knowing that I was going to need help, so I spent far more time imagining all the different ways that could go than the actual process of getting the shoes.  I imagined some ogre of a salesperson who would try to sell me some kind of horribly expensive shoes, socks, and other accessories that I really didn’t need.  I imagined going into the store and meeting some dashing runner man/store clerk, who, after fitting me in a pair of stylish, attractive, and cheap inexpensive trainers, would ask me to literally run away with him.  I also imagined a nice lady who would analyze my running gait and fit me into a pair of shoes.

Turns out, it was the nice lady.  She did analyze my gait (that sounds wrong somehow, but it just meant she watched me walk and run), determining that I needed stability shoes (just as I suspected).  She helped me try on several pairs of shoes.  The only awkwardness involved was the fact that I forgot to shave my legs (I had to roll up my pants leg so the lady could analyze my gait)…so all in all, I’m glad the dashing runner man/sales clerk of my dreams didn’t help me.

I kind of went into the whole thing hoping to find a cute pair of blue shoes that would also feel amazing on my feet, but I also understood that I’d most likely end up with ugly shoes.  And I did…at least in my opinion.  Several people have argued with me on this point, but radioactive yellow just isn’t my thing…at least they can be seen at night.  …if I ever ran at night.  …which I don’t.

How many innocent glow sticks gave their lives to make these shoes?

Oh good.  As if they weren't bright enough, they're also reflective.  So I can run at night and blind other runners and operators of motor vehicles.

The thing is, the moment I put my feet into these shoes, a choir started singing the Hallelujah Chorus.  These shoes surrounded my feet in cushiony delight.  They are like pillows for my feet. 

And when I ran this afternoon, it was like treading upon baby angels.

So I bought them, this ugly pair of shoes, spending more money than I’ve ever spent on a single pair of shoes in my life. 

Running is an expensive habit, but I figure I'll need to keep it up and stay in shape.  You never know the next time I'll need to run away from store meerkats.

Embarrassing Confession #9: Haulin' Oats?

Many people know this about me already, but this is my favorite music video of all time (ten points if you watch the whole thing...):



Yeah, so it's a little embarrassing, but I love this video.  Hall & Oates singing a stalker song whilst wearing trench coats and fedoras.  Win.  Awesome mind blowing 80s-riffic camera effects AND strobe lights.  Win.  John Oates insanely large creeper eyes and epic creeper stache.  Win...eh...if you like that sort of thing.
If I ruled the interwebz, I would get rid of all this "Rick Roll'd" nonsense and replace it with this video.  We could call it "Hall & Oates Roll'd" or maybe "Roll'd in Oates."

...or maybe not.

Have fun with your 10 points.  They aren't redeemable...anywhere.

Social Awkwardness Revisited: New Year's Resolutions

I posted this last New Year's Day.  I still hate black eyed peas.  Not the band, the food.



So, I'm not entirely sure why, but somehow or another, I completely missed out on the idea that people made New Year's Resolutions until I was in sixth grade (circa 1992). I'm not sure if my parents just never talked about them, or if I was too busy trying to figure out how to make my bangs floofy to really listen.

Incidentally, I never managed to have floofy bangs. The curling iron hated my hair (still does). No matter what I tried, my bangs would not do that completely unnatural floofifying. They remained straight and flat, making me look as though I did NOT have a dead chipmunk attached to my forehead. All the cool kids had floofy dead chipmunk bangs. I was SO uncool. I tried to swoop my bangs to the side so they looked all feathery and dead-birdy, but the poor attempt just served to accentuate the fact that my bangs were nonfloofy and nondeadchipmunkified. My jeans refused to stay tight-rolled, too. Man...

Anyway, I remember sitting in my sixth grade class, minding my own business, when the teacher asked us one of those questions she already knew the answer to. "So, what's the big tradition that EVERYONE celebrates EVERY New Year?"

Since I didn't have floofy bangs, I had to make up for it by being a know-it-all (I was the original Hermonie Granger, yo), so I thrust my hand in the air and shouted, "Oooh! Pick me!"

So the teacher picked me. There was only one tradition I ever remembered my family celebrating, and it had nothing to do with New Year's Resolutions. Or maybe it did, and I just never heard that part over the sound of my generic walkman blasting the New Kids on the Block I'd recorded from the radio because my parents wouldn't buy me their tape. Anyway, when the teacher called on me, I proudly stated, "On New Year's Day everyone eats black eyed peas." I said that because that's what my family did. And still does...for whatever reason.

At this point, I feel the need to mention to my younger readers that the musical group "Black Eyed Peas" had not been invented yet. Fergie was still going by Stacy Ferguson and had just finished her stint on KIDS Incorporated (dude, I wanted to be just like her--but her bangs were floofy, so alas, my dreams were shattered). So there was no confusion that I meant that I ate the musical group "Black Eyed Peas." Back to the story now.

Everyone in the classroom looked at me as though I'd just said that "Family Matters" WASN'T the greatest show ever. The teacher was too weirded out to try to smooth things over. She looked at me as if my sad dead-bird bangs had suddenly come to life, and she said, "Ummmmm...what?"

So then I had the realization that not everyone in the world ate black eyed peas for New Years, and to tell you the truth, it made me kind of mad. Because, honestly, I really don't like black eyed peas. I always secretly dreaded New Year's because mom would make me eat a whole bowl of black eyed peas for good luck. I never got good luck from a bowl of black eyed peas. All I got from black eyed peas was gas. My tastes have changed a little since 1992, but really, black eyed peas are still not my fave.

But sitting in that classroom, I realized I'd said something that other kids deemed weird, so I just kinda stammered a little while the teacher asked the rest of the class to tell her what EVERYONE (except for nondeadchipmunkbanged girls) did for new years. In unison, the whole class shouted, "WE MAKE NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS, RUTH, YOU MORON."

And then everyone had to tell me what New Year's Resolutions were. And thus I was educated in the art of New Year's Resolutions.

My New Year's Resolutions for this year involve not eating black eyed peas (the food OR the musical group--I plan on eating chili mac instead--that's not a musical group too, is it?), never ever ever trying to deadchipmunkify my bangs again, and having many, many more socially awkward adventures to share with you.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!