If there was ever a time when I didn't refer to a toilet as a "potty" or a minor injury as a "boo-boo," I really can't remember when it was. Working with small children for the past decade or so has definitely taken a toll on my vocabulary.
Sometimes I get the impression that childcare workers believe themselves to be royalty. Maybe it's because we get to boss our little "subjects" around all day. I don't know. But it seems strange to me that every single childcare worker I've ever met uses the "royal we." "WE don't hit our friends. WE keep our shoes on at school. WE share our toys with everyone. WE keep our food to ourselves. WE always listen to our teachers." Um...why do I include myself in all those directions?
I suppose it helps the kid relate to the teacher if the teacher is including herself in the direction. If the kid believes that the rules are for everyone, he or she might be more likely to obey. But probably not. And half the time, when I'm using the "royal we," I'm not even being honest.
"WE don't throw fits when WE don't get our way."
Actually...yes WE do. And when WE do, WE have to go sit in the crying corner.
I have one in my bedroom. It's awesome.
Since I work with particularly small children, I like to play a little game with them--mainly because I can get away with it. This game is called, "LET'S use ridiculously big words for no apparent reason and see what happens." Like the other day, we were talking about shapes. My one and two-year-olds kept bringing me shapes from the shape-sorter. They brought me a red circle, so I said, "Look! A red circle!" They brought me a blue square, so I said, "Look! A blue square!" I think you get the idea.
Well, then a kid brought me another shape. I'm not sure how this one ended up in our "basic preschool shapes" shape-sorter, but there it was. So I said, "Look! A yellow trapezoid! Can you say 'trapezoid'?" Most of the kids just smiled at me, because they're smart enough to know I was just being weird again (they catch on quick). The youngest of the group, though, raised her one year old chin in the air and exclaimed, "BLUP-BLE-BO!"
Close enough, kid. Close enough. My bad for trying to teach you middle school geometry when you're not even out of diapers.
I also like to have in-depth conversations with this particular child about the artificial sweeteners in her yogurt. I gotta say, she's a good listener, but she doesn't have much to say about aspertame or sucralose. Probably because her mouth is too full of said artificially sweetened yogurt. ...or because she's not even two yet.
Sometimes I really get a kick out of the things I hear myself saying while working with small children. There was one day in particular when I had to use the same phrase in THREE different childcare environments on the SAME day. It's not a phrase one normally even uses once a day--or ever. The phrase, "It's not nice to sit on your friends." Yes. Yes. That SHOULD go without saying. It must have been "Sit on Your Friend Day," and I missed the memo. Again. Just wait till next year, when "Sit On Your Friend Day" rolls around again. Save a spot for me...on your face.
But today at preschool, I think I said the most amazing thing ever.
What did WE learn in preschool today?
"WE can't just go around taking babies from people and putting them in OUR mouths."
Preschool lesson #1: Kidnapping is bad.
Preschool lesson #2: So is cannibalism.
I guess it's never too early to learn...
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Saturday, March 24, 2012
SAA Ep. #65: The Birfday Adventure
My birfday was almost a week ago, but my internet was down for most of the week. This is the first chance I've had to blog about my wonderful, exciting, adventurous, and (of course) slightly awkward birfday.
My birfday started out early because of church. After church, several of my friends and I ended up at Applebees. MySunday School Bible Study teacher, his wife, and four kids came, too. That was awesome for me, because those kids are awesome. The best quote from my entire birthday came from the six year old who was seated next to me. I was eating my free birthday ice cream, but most of it had melted by the time I got to the bottom. That didn't stop me from continuing to eat it. The six year old asked, "Why are you eating your ice cream juice?"
Because it's my birfday, kid. That's why.
After lunch, my roommate and I went to the science museum. She wasn't all that excited about the science museum, but pretty soon she started getting interested in the whale skeletons (I was interested in those, but mainly just because I firmly believe that in 1986, Admiral James T. Kirk and the crew of the former U.S.S. Enterprise came back in time on a Klingon vessel with the sole purpose of capturing two Humpback whales to bring back to the 23rd century, in an attempt to repopulate the species--as well as get rid of a silly probe that was going to destroy the earth). Me? I was far more fascinated by the inch worm that had discovered my hand. Inch worms are adorable. Or at least they used to be.
Inch worms love me. I usually pick up about twenty of them when I go running in the springtime. Apparently they think I'm a giant shuttle bus or something. It's probably because I just run back and forth up and down their sidewalk. A few of them forget to get off at their stop (not that I stop for them anyway), so when I get done from my run, there are still a good dozen of them clinging for dear life to my shirt, pants, or shoes. And really, by the time I've had to pull the seventh inch worm out of my hair, they aren't that adorable anymore. But the one at the museum, which wasn't part of any of the exhibts, still captured my attention more than the stuff I was supposed to be looking at.
It wasn't that I wasn't interested in the museum exhibits. It's just that I have the attention span of a three year old.
Well, my attention span grew up a little bit when we reached the small gem exhibit. I don't like jewels as much as my sister or mom, but I'm still a girl, and I can appreciate a shiny object or two.
...and then my attention span rapidly deteriorated again when we reached the dinosaurs...
...I pretty much became a three year old again.
So, I was not eaten by any dinosaurs...but...
Wait...
...no it isn't.
After the museum, my roommate dropped me off to pick up my car from Applebees. I needed to go by Walmart on the way home because my mom had given me a gift card so that I could purchase a running/hydration belt. If you don't know what that is, think of a fanny pack. Then erase the fanny pack stigma from your mind, add on holsters for water bottles, and you have a vague idea of what a running belt is. It's a useful belt for holding water and other stuff while you're running. I think that the fact that I wanted a running belt for my birthday qualifies me as one of those crazy running people.
Anyway, I was starting to turn to get on one road, when I remembered there was a newer, much more better Walmart right next to the Applebees. So I changed lanes quickly and started to go across a busy intersection. I was kinda sorta already in the middle of the intersection when I realized that I had a red light. I slammed on my brakes and just generally freaked out. I would like to be able to say that I almost died on my birthday (because that sounds exciting and tragic). Really, I just made myself look like an idiot and ticked a bunch of much more cautious drivers off. But hey--traffic signals don't matter on your birthday...right? ...
After all this birthday excitement, you'd think I'd have had enough, right? Yeah, me too. Well, I went to Walmart. I found my running belt (which, by the way, I LOVE. I took it out on a nine mile run the other day, and it was pretty much the coolestfanny pack running accessory ever).
Well, my mom had given me a card for a certain amount, and after the running belt, I still had a little $$ left over. I thought to myself, "Self, you should get a birthday cake." I mean, it all balances out, right? A running belt in one hand, a cake in the other. Yeah.
I meant to just get one of those little individual slices of cake, but they were so expensive compared to the reduced price full cakes. I looked over all that the bakery had to offer, and my eyes kept going back to this one particular cake. It was white with pink trim. Now, pink is no longer my favorite color, but when I was a kid--everything was pink. If it wasn't pink, it wasn't right. And somewhere in my psyche, I connected the color pink to birthdays. So I wanted this pink and white cake. Also, the cake was two layer: one chocolate, one vanilla--two of my favorite cake flavors. And it was only a few dollars more than the little individual cake slices.
Still, I wasn't sure.
So I stared at the cakes.
As I was staring at the cakes, I heard someone talking to me.
"Excuse me, ma'am, but you're so pretty. Where are you from?"
I looked up to see a man smiling at me. He was maybe 5-10 years older than me, and not all that creepy-looking. I was taken aback by his direct approach. I'm pretty clueless when it comes to guys being interested in me, but this was obvious enough for even ME to get. I am never interested in making any kind of love connection with a stranger, but I've really been convicted lately about being rude to people--so I decided to be cautiously pleasant, which went completely against my gut instinct to run away like a little girl.
I think he figured I was from another country (I guess I'm too pale to be American), because after he found out I was from the U.S., he asked about my heritage. Then he asked if I was single. Then he asked if I was a lesbian. He said he just wanted to make sure. Then he asked me a few more questions. For a moment, I wondered if he wasn't really hitting on me, but was actually trying to figure out information so he could try to steal my identity--but since he never asked me about my mother's maiden name or anything like that, I guess he was just really interested in me. I was starting to wonder how I was going to let this guy down easy, when he sighed and said, "I should go before I get in trouble." He reluctantly pointed to a gold ring on his left finger and said, "I am married, you see, and I should go find my wife before she finds me here with you."
Umm, yeah...
Then he paused before leaving, smiled awkwardly and said, "But, really, you're just so beautiful."
And he went away.
I paused for a moment, silently freaking out over the whole situation, 1) because I never get hit on by anyone, let alone strangers, let alone married strangers, and I have no idea how to cope with that sort of thing, and 2) because what kind of married guy just goes around hitting on women as they look at cakes in Walmart?
Then I came to my senses and grabbed the pink and white cake, because obviously that cake made me more attractive.
And even if it wasn't the cake, I figure it couldn't hurt.
Because even if it was a creepy married dude, it's always nice to have someone think you're pretty. Especially on your birthday. And it never hurts to have a pink and white cake.
And it never hurts to look like Santa Claus, unless you're a hobo. ...but that's an entirely different story.
The cake? I definitely ate three slices that night. I don't know if it made me more attractive, but it did give me a killer cake hangover--or a "cakeover," if you will.
...and the next day at work, just as I was telling my friend Kara about my massive cakeover, she presented me with a birthday cake pop.
Hmm.
It's the thought that counts.
(Actually, the cake pop was awesome, as was the latte she bought me! My birthday was excellent and adventurous! I'm really liking 32 so far!)
My birfday started out early because of church. After church, several of my friends and I ended up at Applebees. My
Because it's my birfday, kid. That's why.
After lunch, my roommate and I went to the science museum. She wasn't all that excited about the science museum, but pretty soon she started getting interested in the whale skeletons (I was interested in those, but mainly just because I firmly believe that in 1986, Admiral James T. Kirk and the crew of the former U.S.S. Enterprise came back in time on a Klingon vessel with the sole purpose of capturing two Humpback whales to bring back to the 23rd century, in an attempt to repopulate the species--as well as get rid of a silly probe that was going to destroy the earth). Me? I was far more fascinated by the inch worm that had discovered my hand. Inch worms are adorable. Or at least they used to be.
Inch worms love me. I usually pick up about twenty of them when I go running in the springtime. Apparently they think I'm a giant shuttle bus or something. It's probably because I just run back and forth up and down their sidewalk. A few of them forget to get off at their stop (not that I stop for them anyway), so when I get done from my run, there are still a good dozen of them clinging for dear life to my shirt, pants, or shoes. And really, by the time I've had to pull the seventh inch worm out of my hair, they aren't that adorable anymore. But the one at the museum, which wasn't part of any of the exhibts, still captured my attention more than the stuff I was supposed to be looking at.
It wasn't that I wasn't interested in the museum exhibits. It's just that I have the attention span of a three year old.
Well, my attention span grew up a little bit when we reached the small gem exhibit. I don't like jewels as much as my sister or mom, but I'm still a girl, and I can appreciate a shiny object or two.
...and then my attention span rapidly deteriorated again when we reached the dinosaurs...
...I pretty much became a three year old again.
 |
| This guy needs a 900 lb. cheeseburger. |
 |
| Aww. He's cute. I think I want one. |
 |
| It's a Pachycephalosaurus! This is one of my favorite dinosaurs (probably because it has a hard head)! I got so excited about seeing him (I call him Pachie) that I almost caused a scene. |
 |
| ...in a completely unexpected turn of events, I was eaten by a giant praying mantis. |
THE END.
Wait...
...no it isn't.
After the museum, my roommate dropped me off to pick up my car from Applebees. I needed to go by Walmart on the way home because my mom had given me a gift card so that I could purchase a running/hydration belt. If you don't know what that is, think of a fanny pack. Then erase the fanny pack stigma from your mind, add on holsters for water bottles, and you have a vague idea of what a running belt is. It's a useful belt for holding water and other stuff while you're running. I think that the fact that I wanted a running belt for my birthday qualifies me as one of those crazy running people.
Anyway, I was starting to turn to get on one road, when I remembered there was a newer, much more better Walmart right next to the Applebees. So I changed lanes quickly and started to go across a busy intersection. I was kinda sorta already in the middle of the intersection when I realized that I had a red light. I slammed on my brakes and just generally freaked out. I would like to be able to say that I almost died on my birthday (because that sounds exciting and tragic). Really, I just made myself look like an idiot and ticked a bunch of much more cautious drivers off. But hey--traffic signals don't matter on your birthday...right? ...
After all this birthday excitement, you'd think I'd have had enough, right? Yeah, me too. Well, I went to Walmart. I found my running belt (which, by the way, I LOVE. I took it out on a nine mile run the other day, and it was pretty much the coolest
Well, my mom had given me a card for a certain amount, and after the running belt, I still had a little $$ left over. I thought to myself, "Self, you should get a birthday cake." I mean, it all balances out, right? A running belt in one hand, a cake in the other. Yeah.
I meant to just get one of those little individual slices of cake, but they were so expensive compared to the reduced price full cakes. I looked over all that the bakery had to offer, and my eyes kept going back to this one particular cake. It was white with pink trim. Now, pink is no longer my favorite color, but when I was a kid--everything was pink. If it wasn't pink, it wasn't right. And somewhere in my psyche, I connected the color pink to birthdays. So I wanted this pink and white cake. Also, the cake was two layer: one chocolate, one vanilla--two of my favorite cake flavors. And it was only a few dollars more than the little individual cake slices.
Still, I wasn't sure.
So I stared at the cakes.
As I was staring at the cakes, I heard someone talking to me.
"Excuse me, ma'am, but you're so pretty. Where are you from?"
I looked up to see a man smiling at me. He was maybe 5-10 years older than me, and not all that creepy-looking. I was taken aback by his direct approach. I'm pretty clueless when it comes to guys being interested in me, but this was obvious enough for even ME to get. I am never interested in making any kind of love connection with a stranger, but I've really been convicted lately about being rude to people--so I decided to be cautiously pleasant, which went completely against my gut instinct to run away like a little girl.
I think he figured I was from another country (I guess I'm too pale to be American), because after he found out I was from the U.S., he asked about my heritage. Then he asked if I was single. Then he asked if I was a lesbian. He said he just wanted to make sure. Then he asked me a few more questions. For a moment, I wondered if he wasn't really hitting on me, but was actually trying to figure out information so he could try to steal my identity--but since he never asked me about my mother's maiden name or anything like that, I guess he was just really interested in me. I was starting to wonder how I was going to let this guy down easy, when he sighed and said, "I should go before I get in trouble." He reluctantly pointed to a gold ring on his left finger and said, "I am married, you see, and I should go find my wife before she finds me here with you."
Umm, yeah...
Then he paused before leaving, smiled awkwardly and said, "But, really, you're just so beautiful."
And he went away.
I paused for a moment, silently freaking out over the whole situation, 1) because I never get hit on by anyone, let alone strangers, let alone married strangers, and I have no idea how to cope with that sort of thing, and 2) because what kind of married guy just goes around hitting on women as they look at cakes in Walmart?
Then I came to my senses and grabbed the pink and white cake, because obviously that cake made me more attractive.
And even if it wasn't the cake, I figure it couldn't hurt.
Because even if it was a creepy married dude, it's always nice to have someone think you're pretty. Especially on your birthday. And it never hurts to have a pink and white cake.
And it never hurts to look like Santa Claus, unless you're a hobo. ...but that's an entirely different story.
The cake? I definitely ate three slices that night. I don't know if it made me more attractive, but it did give me a killer cake hangover--or a "cakeover," if you will.
...and the next day at work, just as I was telling my friend Kara about my massive cakeover, she presented me with a birthday cake pop.
Hmm.
It's the thought that counts.
(Actually, the cake pop was awesome, as was the latte she bought me! My birthday was excellent and adventurous! I'm really liking 32 so far!)
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Social Awkwardness Revisited: The Surprise Birthday Party
I posted this last year. As my birfday is approaching again (funny how it tends to happen every year) I don't *think* anyone is planning any surprises for me, but I figured I'd post this again. Just in case. No surprises. No face punching. Just a happy birfday.
As my birthday inevitably approaches (sigh), I feel the need to post this...just in case.
When I was a little girl, I never had birthday parties with friends. My mom always just made a cake for the family and we ate ice cream and I received presents. I didn't live in this world that most kids seem to live in now--if you don't have a HUGE party for your kids EVERY year, you're apparently a bad parent. I am not picking on my parents. I enjoyed my childhood birthdays. Still, there was a part of me that secretly longed for someone, anyone, to throw me a surprise party.
The surprise parties I saw on the stupid 80's sitcoms all seemed so much fun. I wanted for people to hide, then jump out and shout "SURPRISE!" as soon as I showed up.
And then I grew up.
In my life, I have had two surprise birthday parties. Both were while I was at college. Both were...less than ideal.
Now the first one was actually fun, but it didn't turn out as planned. It wasn't my plans that were ruined, because I wasn't the one who planned anything. But about a week or so before my birthday, I started having some suspicions that someone was planning a party for me. I don't know why I started thinking this. The ions just seemed to be off; the stars were misaligned. I knew. Somehow I knew.
So I told the roommate I had at the time, "Roommate, I think someone is planning me a surprise party. I don't know who, but I know someone is planning it." That roommate and I got along really well, but we weren't extremely close friends. I figured she would be able to keep a secret that I knew someone else's secret.
My birthday arrived and my suspicions became even more confirmed. My friends (who all knew it was my birthday) completely ignored the fact that it was my birthday. That's something people only do when they are trying to hide the fact that they're going to suprise you later. I mean, that's classic 80's sitcom. Classic.
So again, I said to my roommate, "Roommate, I am pretty sure that someone is throwing me a surprise party."
And then this girl who I sorta kinda knew, but not really, called me up and said, "Hey, do you want to come down to the student center later and hang out?"
I said, "Why? We have never really hung out like that before?"
She said, "Oh, I just thought it would be fun to spend some time with you. Can you meet me at the student center at...say 6:30 sharp?"
Yeah. I knew exactly what was going on. She was the bait. She was the lure to get me down to the student center where my surprise party was to be held.
So I turned to my roommate. "Roommate, I'm absolutely CERTAIN that someone is throwing me a surprise party!"
My roommate sighed heavily. "Yes, Ruth. Someone is throwing you a surprise party. It's me. Are you happy, now?"
D'oh.
I went to the student center at 6:30. I acted surprised. I had a great time with my friends, and all in all, it was a fantastic party and a fantastic birthday. But to this day, I still feel guilty for figuring out my roommate's secret and THEN being stupid enough to tell her about it.
The second surprise party I had was on my 25th birthday. At this point, I had already learned from previous mistakes. I told all my friends multiple times that I did NOT under any circumstances want a suprise party...or a party of any kind. What I wanted on my birthday was to spend some time with my boyfriend.
Only my boyfriend spent most of the day ignoring me. I was already depressed about turning 25. I was not feeling well that day. Then, my boyfriend ignored me all day. He didn't meet me for lunch like I asked him to. He didn't meet me for dinner. So I had a serious case of the grumps by about 7:00 that night.
My friends came by to cheer me up. "Ruth, why don't you get out of your room. It's your birthday! Come down to the student center with us and have some fun!"
"No," I said firmly. "It's my birthday, my boyfriend has ignored me all day, and I can be miserable if I want to." (You would cry too, if it happened to you...)
"Really, we don't want you to be stuck in your room," they implored. "Come down to the student center with us. We can play pool or watch movies or whatever you want. Just don't sit all alone in your room."
"No," I said again. "I want to be left alone."
Finally, they realized I wasn't going to come with them. So one of my friends said, "Okay, Ruth, we wanted this to be a surprise, but we're having a party for you, so you kind of have to come to the student center with us. Now. We're late."
D'oh.
And let me tell you, that was probably the most awkward party I've ever been to. I asked them NOT to do it, and they did it. And it was dreadful. My boyfriend was there. He was acting strange. My mood continued to be off. Everyone eventually left because of the tension in the air.
And later on that night, I got dumped.
On my birthday.
Fun times.
...
Anyways...
So I'm not expecting or suspecting any of my friends to throw me a party, surprise or otherwise, but just in case you're one of my friends and the idea popped into your head, I advise you to pop the idea right back out.
I'm socially awkward. I'm introspective. I'm an introvert. In other words, I don't always like people! :-D
I like surprises, but NOT surprise social interactions. If I know I'm going to have to be social, I have better time to prepare myself for it. If a social encounter just jumps out at me and says, "SURPRISE!" then there's a good chance I'm not going to be the best company. In fact, I might get really excited and punch you in the face.
So if you want to throw me a party, go for it...just let me know about it in advance. You've been warned.
As my birthday inevitably approaches (sigh), I feel the need to post this...just in case.
When I was a little girl, I never had birthday parties with friends. My mom always just made a cake for the family and we ate ice cream and I received presents. I didn't live in this world that most kids seem to live in now--if you don't have a HUGE party for your kids EVERY year, you're apparently a bad parent. I am not picking on my parents. I enjoyed my childhood birthdays. Still, there was a part of me that secretly longed for someone, anyone, to throw me a surprise party.
The surprise parties I saw on the stupid 80's sitcoms all seemed so much fun. I wanted for people to hide, then jump out and shout "SURPRISE!" as soon as I showed up.
And then I grew up.
In my life, I have had two surprise birthday parties. Both were while I was at college. Both were...less than ideal.
Now the first one was actually fun, but it didn't turn out as planned. It wasn't my plans that were ruined, because I wasn't the one who planned anything. But about a week or so before my birthday, I started having some suspicions that someone was planning a party for me. I don't know why I started thinking this. The ions just seemed to be off; the stars were misaligned. I knew. Somehow I knew.
So I told the roommate I had at the time, "Roommate, I think someone is planning me a surprise party. I don't know who, but I know someone is planning it." That roommate and I got along really well, but we weren't extremely close friends. I figured she would be able to keep a secret that I knew someone else's secret.
My birthday arrived and my suspicions became even more confirmed. My friends (who all knew it was my birthday) completely ignored the fact that it was my birthday. That's something people only do when they are trying to hide the fact that they're going to suprise you later. I mean, that's classic 80's sitcom. Classic.
So again, I said to my roommate, "Roommate, I am pretty sure that someone is throwing me a surprise party."
And then this girl who I sorta kinda knew, but not really, called me up and said, "Hey, do you want to come down to the student center later and hang out?"
I said, "Why? We have never really hung out like that before?"
She said, "Oh, I just thought it would be fun to spend some time with you. Can you meet me at the student center at...say 6:30 sharp?"
Yeah. I knew exactly what was going on. She was the bait. She was the lure to get me down to the student center where my surprise party was to be held.
So I turned to my roommate. "Roommate, I'm absolutely CERTAIN that someone is throwing me a surprise party!"
My roommate sighed heavily. "Yes, Ruth. Someone is throwing you a surprise party. It's me. Are you happy, now?"
D'oh.
I went to the student center at 6:30. I acted surprised. I had a great time with my friends, and all in all, it was a fantastic party and a fantastic birthday. But to this day, I still feel guilty for figuring out my roommate's secret and THEN being stupid enough to tell her about it.
The second surprise party I had was on my 25th birthday. At this point, I had already learned from previous mistakes. I told all my friends multiple times that I did NOT under any circumstances want a suprise party...or a party of any kind. What I wanted on my birthday was to spend some time with my boyfriend.
Only my boyfriend spent most of the day ignoring me. I was already depressed about turning 25. I was not feeling well that day. Then, my boyfriend ignored me all day. He didn't meet me for lunch like I asked him to. He didn't meet me for dinner. So I had a serious case of the grumps by about 7:00 that night.
My friends came by to cheer me up. "Ruth, why don't you get out of your room. It's your birthday! Come down to the student center with us and have some fun!"
"No," I said firmly. "It's my birthday, my boyfriend has ignored me all day, and I can be miserable if I want to." (You would cry too, if it happened to you...)
"Really, we don't want you to be stuck in your room," they implored. "Come down to the student center with us. We can play pool or watch movies or whatever you want. Just don't sit all alone in your room."
"No," I said again. "I want to be left alone."
Finally, they realized I wasn't going to come with them. So one of my friends said, "Okay, Ruth, we wanted this to be a surprise, but we're having a party for you, so you kind of have to come to the student center with us. Now. We're late."
D'oh.
And let me tell you, that was probably the most awkward party I've ever been to. I asked them NOT to do it, and they did it. And it was dreadful. My boyfriend was there. He was acting strange. My mood continued to be off. Everyone eventually left because of the tension in the air.
And later on that night, I got dumped.
On my birthday.
Fun times.
...
Anyways...
So I'm not expecting or suspecting any of my friends to throw me a party, surprise or otherwise, but just in case you're one of my friends and the idea popped into your head, I advise you to pop the idea right back out.
I'm socially awkward. I'm introspective. I'm an introvert. In other words, I don't always like people! :-D
I like surprises, but NOT surprise social interactions. If I know I'm going to have to be social, I have better time to prepare myself for it. If a social encounter just jumps out at me and says, "SURPRISE!" then there's a good chance I'm not going to be the best company. In fact, I might get really excited and punch you in the face.
So if you want to throw me a party, go for it...just let me know about it in advance. You've been warned.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
SAA Ep. #64: Springing Forward!
The cellular phone is a curious device. I believe its original purpose was to allow a person to have the capability of moving around from location to location while talking to a person in a completely different location. Now cell phones are smarter than people (doesn't take much, when you really think about it), and now it seems that the main use of a cell phone is to play Angry Birds or check Facebook.
I don't have a smart phone. In fact, I'm pretty sure my phone rode the short bus. Okay, so that was a bit unfair. My phone isn't THAT dumb. It has a small texting keypad and the capability of doing a lot of really interesting things that require a data plan, which I do not have. It's not my phone's fault it's dumb; it was just never afforded the opportunities that other phones have had. It's a product of its environment--meaning its owner is cheap. ...and also scared of phones that are smarter than humans.
Well, since I am generally stupid and suspicious when it comes to technology, I usually don't trust my phone to update itself whenever Daylight Savings Time comes around. However, my phone has never ceased to automatically update. So, this year, I decided I'd take a leap of faith and trust my phone. I set my wake up alarms (yes I have more than one--about 15 of them actually--I usually finally get out of bed around the time the 12th one goes off) for their usual times, and then I went to sleep.
My roommate also trusted her cell phone. That's important to note. It's also important to note that my roommate needed to be at church an hour earlier than I did this morning.
I was not awoken by my phone's alarm. I was awoken to the sound of my roommate fake cussing and rushing around the apartment. Her phone alarm had not gone off. Neither had mine.
So, lesson learned. Don't trust technology. Phone clocks don't always automatically update to time changes. Phone alarms don't always go off. ...And one day robots will enslave us and make us into human batteries.
But my evil cell phone's plans to ruin my day were thwarted. Due to the extraordinary amount of rushing noise my roommate was making, I was woken up with sufficient time to get ready and go to church.
Even if I had been late for church, that would not be enough to make me hate Daylight Savings Time. Some people are DST haters, and well, I will let them hate. It does stink to lose an hour, especially when you have kids and stuff. But here's the way I see it....
Every autumn, I get mild seasonal depression (That's self-diagnosed, fyi. I was a psychology minor, so that makes me perfectly qualified to make diagnoses of mood disorders, right?). When the weather gets colder and the days get shorter, I get mildly depressed--which includes physical EXHAUSTION. On the other hand, when spring comes around, bringing warmer weather and brighter sunshine, I feel more energized. So yeah, I will GLADLY give up one hour now if it means that I can have it back in the autumn. And even though it stinks to lose an hour, the bright side is that I only have to push the "set hour" button once on all my digital clocks.
...in the autumn, it's kind of a pain in the butt to have to press that set hour button eleven times. And of course, I always get too into it and overshoot, which means I have to push it another eleven times. One day I might sprain my finger.
Stupid technology.
I don't have a smart phone. In fact, I'm pretty sure my phone rode the short bus. Okay, so that was a bit unfair. My phone isn't THAT dumb. It has a small texting keypad and the capability of doing a lot of really interesting things that require a data plan, which I do not have. It's not my phone's fault it's dumb; it was just never afforded the opportunities that other phones have had. It's a product of its environment--meaning its owner is cheap. ...and also scared of phones that are smarter than humans.
Well, since I am generally stupid and suspicious when it comes to technology, I usually don't trust my phone to update itself whenever Daylight Savings Time comes around. However, my phone has never ceased to automatically update. So, this year, I decided I'd take a leap of faith and trust my phone. I set my wake up alarms (yes I have more than one--about 15 of them actually--I usually finally get out of bed around the time the 12th one goes off) for their usual times, and then I went to sleep.
My roommate also trusted her cell phone. That's important to note. It's also important to note that my roommate needed to be at church an hour earlier than I did this morning.
I was not awoken by my phone's alarm. I was awoken to the sound of my roommate fake cussing and rushing around the apartment. Her phone alarm had not gone off. Neither had mine.
So, lesson learned. Don't trust technology. Phone clocks don't always automatically update to time changes. Phone alarms don't always go off. ...And one day robots will enslave us and make us into human batteries.
But my evil cell phone's plans to ruin my day were thwarted. Due to the extraordinary amount of rushing noise my roommate was making, I was woken up with sufficient time to get ready and go to church.
Even if I had been late for church, that would not be enough to make me hate Daylight Savings Time. Some people are DST haters, and well, I will let them hate. It does stink to lose an hour, especially when you have kids and stuff. But here's the way I see it....
Every autumn, I get mild seasonal depression (That's self-diagnosed, fyi. I was a psychology minor, so that makes me perfectly qualified to make diagnoses of mood disorders, right?). When the weather gets colder and the days get shorter, I get mildly depressed--which includes physical EXHAUSTION. On the other hand, when spring comes around, bringing warmer weather and brighter sunshine, I feel more energized. So yeah, I will GLADLY give up one hour now if it means that I can have it back in the autumn. And even though it stinks to lose an hour, the bright side is that I only have to push the "set hour" button once on all my digital clocks.
...in the autumn, it's kind of a pain in the butt to have to press that set hour button eleven times. And of course, I always get too into it and overshoot, which means I have to push it another eleven times. One day I might sprain my finger.
Stupid technology.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Embarrassing Confession #10: Fake Cuss Words
I tried cussing once.
I didn’t like it.
It was back when I was in middle school and had this crazy middle school notion that cool people cussed. I’m not sure why I thought that, but I did. So, in my ever-failing quest to become cool, I tried my hand at cussing (shocking, I know!). Now, I wasn’t going around dropping F-bombs in seventh grade or anything, but I tried using some of the milder ones.
The thing is, I never really got the hang of it. I’d been taught that cussing was wrong (If my parents had known, they would have freaked! Oh, no! My mom reads this blog. Wait! I’m a grown up now. It’s too late to wash my mouth out with soap now, Mom—besides, I’ve heard it causes soap poisoning and permanent blindness). I knew it was wrong. So whenever I tried cussing, all my upbringing and conscience would kick in, subconsciously holding back whatever particular profanity I was trying to utter. An epic battle occurred, in which I forced my tongue kicking and screaming to stutter out a naughty word.
It was exhausting.
After a short time, I realized I didn’t sound cool. I sounded ridiculous. So did the other people who cussed all the time. And what was so cool about having to constantly look over your shoulder to make sure a teacher wouldn’t overhear you cuss? Yeah. After only about two weeks of forced profanity, I decided cussing was stupid. It is an opinion I still hold today.
So I haven’t really cussed at all since seventh grade, and recently I’ve been trying to reduce the amount of “fake profanity” from my vocabulary. There are some people who take offense to the words “crap,” “sucks,” and “freakin’.” I don’t like offending people, not even with seemingly harmless fake profanity. While I do sometimes slip up and say these words, I’ve found that I don’t utter them as often as I used to.
But it seems I still need some sort of verbal release when something unfortunate, surprising, or bothersome happens. Since I’ve stopped using my go-to fake bad words, I’ve started uttering some pretty silly things.
I dropped something, and the fake bad word that came to my lips? “Snapdragon!”
I got a splinter in my finger. “Snot rag!”
I bit my tongue. “Door bell!”
I spilled some tea. “Ginger snap!”
I forgot something I was supposed to do. “Ear mite!”
And my favorite? The other day I tripped over something and loudly, fiercely, (in the presence of some coworkers) exclaimed, “SNICKERDOODLE!” After the fact, I looked around at my coworkers and said, “Did I just say ‘Snickerdoodle’?” They nodded. They smiled.
They nodded and smiled.
I should audition for an Orbit commercial:
SHUT THE FRONT DOOR!
Sometimes the kids at work will come up to me and tattle on each other. That’s not my favorite game, but sometimes I let them play it. Sometimes a kid will come up to me and say, “Joe just said the S WORD!”
When this happens, it’s always important to take the child seriously. It’s also important to figure out exactly what was said. I ask the child to whisper the “S Word” in my ear so I know what was said. 4.8 times out of 10, the “S Word” is “stupid.” 4.8 times out of 10, the “S Word” is “shut up.” 0.1999999999999999 times out of 10, the “S Word” is “silly” “sissy” or something like that. Only about 0.01 times out of 10 is the “S Word” the ACTUAL “S Word.”
And by the actual “S Word,” I, of course mean…
SN!@#*RDOODLE!
I didn’t like it.
It was back when I was in middle school and had this crazy middle school notion that cool people cussed. I’m not sure why I thought that, but I did. So, in my ever-failing quest to become cool, I tried my hand at cussing (shocking, I know!). Now, I wasn’t going around dropping F-bombs in seventh grade or anything, but I tried using some of the milder ones.
The thing is, I never really got the hang of it. I’d been taught that cussing was wrong (If my parents had known, they would have freaked! Oh, no! My mom reads this blog. Wait! I’m a grown up now. It’s too late to wash my mouth out with soap now, Mom—besides, I’ve heard it causes soap poisoning and permanent blindness). I knew it was wrong. So whenever I tried cussing, all my upbringing and conscience would kick in, subconsciously holding back whatever particular profanity I was trying to utter. An epic battle occurred, in which I forced my tongue kicking and screaming to stutter out a naughty word.
It was exhausting.
After a short time, I realized I didn’t sound cool. I sounded ridiculous. So did the other people who cussed all the time. And what was so cool about having to constantly look over your shoulder to make sure a teacher wouldn’t overhear you cuss? Yeah. After only about two weeks of forced profanity, I decided cussing was stupid. It is an opinion I still hold today.
So I haven’t really cussed at all since seventh grade, and recently I’ve been trying to reduce the amount of “fake profanity” from my vocabulary. There are some people who take offense to the words “crap,” “sucks,” and “freakin’.” I don’t like offending people, not even with seemingly harmless fake profanity. While I do sometimes slip up and say these words, I’ve found that I don’t utter them as often as I used to.
But it seems I still need some sort of verbal release when something unfortunate, surprising, or bothersome happens. Since I’ve stopped using my go-to fake bad words, I’ve started uttering some pretty silly things.
I dropped something, and the fake bad word that came to my lips? “Snapdragon!”
I got a splinter in my finger. “Snot rag!”
I bit my tongue. “Door bell!”
I spilled some tea. “Ginger snap!”
I forgot something I was supposed to do. “Ear mite!”
And my favorite? The other day I tripped over something and loudly, fiercely, (in the presence of some coworkers) exclaimed, “SNICKERDOODLE!” After the fact, I looked around at my coworkers and said, “Did I just say ‘Snickerdoodle’?” They nodded. They smiled.
They nodded and smiled.
I should audition for an Orbit commercial:
SHUT THE FRONT DOOR!
Sometimes the kids at work will come up to me and tattle on each other. That’s not my favorite game, but sometimes I let them play it. Sometimes a kid will come up to me and say, “Joe just said the S WORD!”
When this happens, it’s always important to take the child seriously. It’s also important to figure out exactly what was said. I ask the child to whisper the “S Word” in my ear so I know what was said. 4.8 times out of 10, the “S Word” is “stupid.” 4.8 times out of 10, the “S Word” is “shut up.” 0.1999999999999999 times out of 10, the “S Word” is “silly” “sissy” or something like that. Only about 0.01 times out of 10 is the “S Word” the ACTUAL “S Word.”
And by the actual “S Word,” I, of course mean…
SN!@#*RDOODLE!
Friday, March 2, 2012
SAA Ep. #63: A Space for Every Car, and Every Car in its Space
A friend came up to me at church the other night and said, “Hey! I noticed you actually parked in a different parking space tonight. Good job!”
Now, granted, this friend of mine is a pretty odd character, but even with his peculiarities, I thought it strange to be praised for something as mundane as having parked in a different parking spot than usual.
Yeah, only I didn’t park in a different spot than usual. I found myself explaining to my odd friend that I have a usual “Sunday morning parking spot” and a usual “Sunday night parking spot.” I went on to give him such superfluous information as, “My Sunday night parking spot is also the parking spot I use on days when I teach at the church’s preschool program,” and “I park in a different spot on Sunday mornings because more people come, and I like to park further away so that families and old people can get better parking spaces,” and “Last Sunday night I parked in my Sunday morning spot because we were having a church meeting, and I thought more people would come to that, so I wanted to free up more good spaces.”
My friend, odd as he is, blinked at me. I think it was because I was the odder one in that particular situation. Tee hee! Odder sounds like otter! I like otters.
Ahem.
So, after leaving church, I had to go to Walmart for a few things. I also planned on getting gasoline at the Walmart gas station. So when I pulled into the Walmart parking lot, I pulled into my “I’m going to get gasoline after I shop” parking spot, as opposed to my “quickest way to get out of the parking lot” space. And I had the sudden realization that I have usual parking places almost everywhere I go. In fact, in most cases, I have two (or more) usual parking spaces.
I also drove to Target after getting gas at Walmart, and I pulled into my “I’m coming from this direction” parking space instead of my “I’m coming from this other direction” parking space.
After doing all my shopping, I drove back to my apartment, where I pulled into my “it looks and feels as though it might frost a little overnight, so I’ll try to position my car in a way that my tall apartment building doesn’t block the first warm rays of the slowly rising sun” space as opposed to my “I’m lazy and just want the space closest to my apartment door” space, and as opposed to my “I’m feeling generous and charitable to the neighbors that live in the apartment building next to mine and want to give them a closer parking space, even though they snub me and their yippy dog poops next to my porch” space, and as opposed to my “HOLY CRAP are ALL MY NEIGHBORS having a party at the SAME TIME? Why is the only space left the stinky one next to the dumpster that is hard to back out of on account of the aforementioned dumpster?” space.
I thought about it a little, and I also have multiple parking spaces at work. I either park in the “this is my space” parking space or the “OH NOES! Kara took my space so I’ll park in this other space” space.
Okay, I admit it. It’s a little quirky. I mean, growing up, my parents always just tried to get the parking space that was closest to whatever building we were trying to enter. I think most people live by that kind of logic. Most people base their parking spot decision on what will allow them quickest access to the building. This doesn’t require any strategy or planning. And why should it? It’s just something simple—parking a car.
Yeah, but I’m me. I make everything a little more complicated, a little more awkward, and a little more fun! My parking thought processes are a little different. Usually, I’m thinking, “What parking space will allow me easiest exit from the parking lot?” My way of thinking actually requires quite a bit of planning and strategy, which, yes, makes me odd.
And things are about to getotter odder.
Here’s how I go about selecting a good parking spot:
1) Ain’t Too Proud to Walk
When I go to Walmart or church (on a Sunday morning), I park pretty far away from the door. Do you know how long it takes me to cross the entire parking lot of my church? About 20 seconds. Do you know how long it takes me to cross the entire parking lot of Walmart? Probably about 45 seconds. Now, I can understand that if you have three kids in tow, or if you have arthritis in both knees, you might want to park a little closer. It’s just that I see relatively young and healthy individuals fight over the closer parking spots, hoping to save a little bit of time and effort. They spend far more time and gas and energy trying to find a close parking spot than they would if they just parked a little further away and walked an extra few yards.
At Walmart, I park far away, but I make sure I’m also parking next to one of those grocery cart return thingies. It irks me when people don’t return their carts to those cart return thingies. The only way I can justify not returning a cart would be if zombies attacked Walmart. If zombies attack Walmart, by all means, roll your cart at them and run like the dickens. (I'm not sure where the saying "the dickens" came from, but if a zombie Charles Dickens were chasing me, I doubt I'd be running like the dickens. I'd be like, "HEY! You're an undead Charles Dickens! Can I have your autograaaaaaaaaaufhghg!?" And he would eat my brainz. I'd be honored to have Charles Dickens eat my brainz, by the way.)
2) Only Back It Up Back It Up When Absolutely Necessary
The bane of my parking lot existence is those little concrete barriers they put between two parking spaces that are lined up in the same little row. I like it when I can pull my car into one space and just drive it on through to the space across from it so that the front of my car is facing the opening of the space. No backing up necessary! I use these convenient spaces whenever humanly possible…even if it means I have to park further away from the building (see #1).
3) Circumnavigate theGlobe Lot
One of the easiest ways to slow down the entry into or exit from a parking lot is to go where pedestrians typically cross. Whenever possible, I go around the parking lot instead of through it. It might seem like a waste of time and gas to go a longer distance around a parking lot, but nine times out of ten, if I take the shorter distance to where more pedestrians are, I have to stop multiple times to avoid hitting someone, which wastes time and gasoline. On a related note, as a person who likes to walk across parking lots, I take great delight in making cars stop for me as I enter the “crossing zone.” Fools shoulda gone around the other way….
4) Permanent Parking
I’m not one of those people who gets upset if someone parks in my space (like that parking tyrant Kara). I’m not that possessive of public property, okay. It’s just not that big of a deal to me if I don’t park in the same place every time—I just prefer to have consistency in my parking spaces. I am a creature of habit that doesn’t like change, but there’s a greater reason why I typically like to park in the same general places.
It has happened to all of us. We leave a store and realize that we can’t remember where we parked. I really don’t know how I ever survived before I got a car with a remote. As embarrassing as it can be, sometimes it’s just necessary to click thedon't panic button on the remote so that I can locate my beeping and flashing car in a crowded parking lot.
The other day I was walking towards a car that looked just like mine. Same color, same features—sunroof and spoiler and everything. It wasn’t until I tried to unlock the door that I realized it wasn’t mine. Mine was located a few feet behind it, and I didn’t realize it until the headlights came on—on the car behind the one I was trying to unlock. It kind of freaked me out a little. I think someone parked that car so close to mine just to mess with my head. …they’re out to get me, I tell you….
Yeah, so everyone misplaces their cars, but I’ve found that the chances of it happening are much less if one parks in the same space (or general area) every time they visit a particular parking lot. Knowing where your car is without having to think about it is always a good thing. It speeds up the exiting of the parking lot, and you don’t end up looking like an idiot because you don’t know where you put your car. Win-Win.
You can judge me for my quirky behavior if you want, but the way I see it, there’s nothing wrong with having a “Parking Lot Plan.” There’s nothing wrong with having a “Parking Lot Entrance and Exit Strategy.” There’s nothing wrong with having a usual parking space, along with a backup space or two. There’s nothing wrong with being extra prepared when it comes to those awkward parking situations.
I mean, haters gonna hate, but we’ll see who gets out of the parking lot first when the zombies attack Walmart. ...with otters....
Now, granted, this friend of mine is a pretty odd character, but even with his peculiarities, I thought it strange to be praised for something as mundane as having parked in a different parking spot than usual.
Yeah, only I didn’t park in a different spot than usual. I found myself explaining to my odd friend that I have a usual “Sunday morning parking spot” and a usual “Sunday night parking spot.” I went on to give him such superfluous information as, “My Sunday night parking spot is also the parking spot I use on days when I teach at the church’s preschool program,” and “I park in a different spot on Sunday mornings because more people come, and I like to park further away so that families and old people can get better parking spaces,” and “Last Sunday night I parked in my Sunday morning spot because we were having a church meeting, and I thought more people would come to that, so I wanted to free up more good spaces.”
My friend, odd as he is, blinked at me. I think it was because I was the odder one in that particular situation. Tee hee! Odder sounds like otter! I like otters.
Ahem.
So, after leaving church, I had to go to Walmart for a few things. I also planned on getting gasoline at the Walmart gas station. So when I pulled into the Walmart parking lot, I pulled into my “I’m going to get gasoline after I shop” parking spot, as opposed to my “quickest way to get out of the parking lot” space. And I had the sudden realization that I have usual parking places almost everywhere I go. In fact, in most cases, I have two (or more) usual parking spaces.
I also drove to Target after getting gas at Walmart, and I pulled into my “I’m coming from this direction” parking space instead of my “I’m coming from this other direction” parking space.
After doing all my shopping, I drove back to my apartment, where I pulled into my “it looks and feels as though it might frost a little overnight, so I’ll try to position my car in a way that my tall apartment building doesn’t block the first warm rays of the slowly rising sun” space as opposed to my “I’m lazy and just want the space closest to my apartment door” space, and as opposed to my “I’m feeling generous and charitable to the neighbors that live in the apartment building next to mine and want to give them a closer parking space, even though they snub me and their yippy dog poops next to my porch” space, and as opposed to my “HOLY CRAP are ALL MY NEIGHBORS having a party at the SAME TIME? Why is the only space left the stinky one next to the dumpster that is hard to back out of on account of the aforementioned dumpster?” space.
I thought about it a little, and I also have multiple parking spaces at work. I either park in the “this is my space” parking space or the “OH NOES! Kara took my space so I’ll park in this other space” space.
Okay, I admit it. It’s a little quirky. I mean, growing up, my parents always just tried to get the parking space that was closest to whatever building we were trying to enter. I think most people live by that kind of logic. Most people base their parking spot decision on what will allow them quickest access to the building. This doesn’t require any strategy or planning. And why should it? It’s just something simple—parking a car.
Yeah, but I’m me. I make everything a little more complicated, a little more awkward, and a little more fun! My parking thought processes are a little different. Usually, I’m thinking, “What parking space will allow me easiest exit from the parking lot?” My way of thinking actually requires quite a bit of planning and strategy, which, yes, makes me odd.
And things are about to get
Here’s how I go about selecting a good parking spot:
1) Ain’t Too Proud to Walk
When I go to Walmart or church (on a Sunday morning), I park pretty far away from the door. Do you know how long it takes me to cross the entire parking lot of my church? About 20 seconds. Do you know how long it takes me to cross the entire parking lot of Walmart? Probably about 45 seconds. Now, I can understand that if you have three kids in tow, or if you have arthritis in both knees, you might want to park a little closer. It’s just that I see relatively young and healthy individuals fight over the closer parking spots, hoping to save a little bit of time and effort. They spend far more time and gas and energy trying to find a close parking spot than they would if they just parked a little further away and walked an extra few yards.
At Walmart, I park far away, but I make sure I’m also parking next to one of those grocery cart return thingies. It irks me when people don’t return their carts to those cart return thingies. The only way I can justify not returning a cart would be if zombies attacked Walmart. If zombies attack Walmart, by all means, roll your cart at them and run like the dickens. (I'm not sure where the saying "the dickens" came from, but if a zombie Charles Dickens were chasing me, I doubt I'd be running like the dickens. I'd be like, "HEY! You're an undead Charles Dickens! Can I have your autograaaaaaaaaaufhghg!?" And he would eat my brainz. I'd be honored to have Charles Dickens eat my brainz, by the way.)
2) Only Back It Up Back It Up When Absolutely Necessary
The bane of my parking lot existence is those little concrete barriers they put between two parking spaces that are lined up in the same little row. I like it when I can pull my car into one space and just drive it on through to the space across from it so that the front of my car is facing the opening of the space. No backing up necessary! I use these convenient spaces whenever humanly possible…even if it means I have to park further away from the building (see #1).
3) Circumnavigate the
One of the easiest ways to slow down the entry into or exit from a parking lot is to go where pedestrians typically cross. Whenever possible, I go around the parking lot instead of through it. It might seem like a waste of time and gas to go a longer distance around a parking lot, but nine times out of ten, if I take the shorter distance to where more pedestrians are, I have to stop multiple times to avoid hitting someone, which wastes time and gasoline. On a related note, as a person who likes to walk across parking lots, I take great delight in making cars stop for me as I enter the “crossing zone.” Fools shoulda gone around the other way….
4) Permanent Parking
I’m not one of those people who gets upset if someone parks in my space (like that parking tyrant Kara). I’m not that possessive of public property, okay. It’s just not that big of a deal to me if I don’t park in the same place every time—I just prefer to have consistency in my parking spaces. I am a creature of habit that doesn’t like change, but there’s a greater reason why I typically like to park in the same general places.
It has happened to all of us. We leave a store and realize that we can’t remember where we parked. I really don’t know how I ever survived before I got a car with a remote. As embarrassing as it can be, sometimes it’s just necessary to click the
The other day I was walking towards a car that looked just like mine. Same color, same features—sunroof and spoiler and everything. It wasn’t until I tried to unlock the door that I realized it wasn’t mine. Mine was located a few feet behind it, and I didn’t realize it until the headlights came on—on the car behind the one I was trying to unlock. It kind of freaked me out a little. I think someone parked that car so close to mine just to mess with my head. …they’re out to get me, I tell you….
Yeah, so everyone misplaces their cars, but I’ve found that the chances of it happening are much less if one parks in the same space (or general area) every time they visit a particular parking lot. Knowing where your car is without having to think about it is always a good thing. It speeds up the exiting of the parking lot, and you don’t end up looking like an idiot because you don’t know where you put your car. Win-Win.
You can judge me for my quirky behavior if you want, but the way I see it, there’s nothing wrong with having a “Parking Lot Plan.” There’s nothing wrong with having a “Parking Lot Entrance and Exit Strategy.” There’s nothing wrong with having a usual parking space, along with a backup space or two. There’s nothing wrong with being extra prepared when it comes to those awkward parking situations.
I mean, haters gonna hate, but we’ll see who gets out of the parking lot first when the zombies attack Walmart. ...with otters....
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