Public Service Announcement: The "Shiner" and You

Black eyes happen. Sometimes black eyes happen while eating black eyed peas. Sometimes black eyes happen while eating black eyed peas AND simultaneously listening to the Black Eyed Peas. Especially if you're using your eating utensil as a microphone and then proceed to stab yourself in the eye whilst trying to lip sync and dance like you aren't, in fact, the whitest person alive.

That didn't happen to me. Really. But it could have. Fact is, black eyes can happen to anyone, anytime, anywhere. I went 33 1/4 years without experiencing a black eye. Then, one day, I was literally struck with the reality that I, too, can get a black eye.

Reality feels a lot like a hard wood floor.

This is in the early stages, before it really turned to the Dark Side and took over.
Honestly, I was really just getting tired of taking pics of my eye, so this is all you get.



So, dear reader, I was left with the task of trying to figure out what to do with my black eye, and I came up with the following information. That way, if you ever find yourself struck with reality (or a volley ball to the eye socket), you'll know what to do.

Step One: Assess the Damage (Make Sure You Aren't Dead)

In the case of my black eye, I cleverly injured myself in the presence of a medical doctor who was able to tell me I didn't need stitches.  Which is good, because stiches be 'spensive.  I'm not sure how much damage I caused to this medical doctor's house with my face.  But if you aren't sure how badly you're injured, please seek medical attention.

Immediately after the fall that caused my black eye, I vaguely remember shouting to all present, "I'm fine!  I'm fine!  I just hit my face!" as if that were no big deal.  Because the whole time I was falling, I was thinking, "This is it.  I am going to break my neck.  I'm dead.  Goodbye world.  The last thing I'll see is the floor rushing up at me.  Goodbye, floor!  Nice meeting you as you cause my imminent death!" 

I didn't break my neck.  I didn't sprain an ankle.  I didn't break an arm.  So, yes, hitting my face was actually one of the best possible outcomes.

I had to work that night after my injury, so I didn't ice my eye like I probably should have.  But I figured since I was not dizzy or acting abnormally (well, abnormally for me), I was fine. 

I do remember waking up the next morning and blinking a few times to check my vision.  Then, for about 1.5 seconds, I freaked out and almost screamed out, "MY VISION IS BLURRY!"  But...since I hadn't put my glasses on yet, this was completely normal.

Step Two: The Cover Story

Let's face it, most black eyes occur as the result of either embarrassing or boring events. When people ask, "Holy guacamole! What happened to your eye?!" they don't want to hear about how you bumped it on the open cabinet door, how your kid beaned you with a baseball bat, or how you hit yourself when you got a little too wild mixing cake batter with the whisk. They want an epic story. And honestly, that's what you want, too. Because seriously, if you're gonna get a black eye making cake, that cake had better taste pretty stinkin amazing.

Now, I'm not suggesting you lie. Just exaggerate to the point that almost nothing in your story has any basis in reality. The only fact you need to keep the same is that your eye was somehow hurt, but the details should be fantastic. The more fantastic, the better. 

In the retellings, make yourself sound as heroic and awesome as possible. Heroic. Awesome. Awesic? No. Herosome? Better. Yeah. Herosome.



And you don't have to be afraid of getting details wrong upon multiple tellings of the account. It's okay to change details, because the more the story is told, the more friends who hear and pass it along, the more likely you are to become the stuff of legend.

For instance, no one wants to hear that I was helping my friends Joe (I'm tempted to call him The Doctor, but I'm not sure how well that would go over) and Emily (both who asked to be mentioned if and when I blogged about the event) move some things to a storage building, when I was carrying a box down the stairs in their house.  I missed a step, and suddenly found myself trying to fly.

Now, Douglas Adams of "Hitchhiker's Guide" fame told us that flying is the art knack of aiming for the ground and missing. He went on to say that most of us, if we're really trying, will fail to miss the ground fairly hard.

Well, my right eye socket failed to miss Joe and Emily's floor pretty hard. 

It even bounced off a few times, for good measure.

But no one wants to hear about that.

So I have been telling people that about 300, no 500 robot alien Sith ninjas were attacking a Girl Scout. I went after them, and one of them got in a lucky punch before I sent the lot of them crying home to their robot alien Sith ninja mommies. 

That's not a lie. It's an exaggeration. There were people there. One of them probably had a Transformer or robot toy once. One probably took marital arts as a kid. One had probably once eaten a Girl Scout...

...cookie.

What's important is that I came out looking awesic herosome! And I changed some details with every person I told, so now this rumor is currently circulating:

Hey, I just heard that Ruth got a call from a troop of Girl Scouts to help them defeat an entire army of magical angry vampire zombie robot spider alien Sith Ring Wraith ninja weasel pirate Dragon viper monkeys that decided to terrorize an orphanage, so she took them on single-handedly and surgically removed her own eye to make into a rudimentary bomb, which she then used to kill them all. The only mark on her is a bruise she got when her hand slipped as she was surgically replacing her eye, which is still functioning normally, despite the bruises. And the only reason her usually steady hand slipped during surgery was because Phil the Squirrel threw an acorn at her because he hated how incredibly awesome she is.

Legend. Herosome legend, I tell you.


Step Three: Non-Cosmetic Cover-Up

Now, usually, I wouldn't even bother covering up such a magnificent black eye.  Every person who sees it gives me another opportunity to tell my cover story, which will only increase my herosome status.  But the other day I had to cover it up because I was singing praise team at church.  I wanted the people at church to focus on praising God, and not see my eye and think, "Oh, look at her eye!  I'll bet either the sopranos got into another diva death match, or the new music minister got a little violent with Ruth for singing off key again."  Neither of those things happened.  That's how rumors get started.  And we don't want those rumors started, just the herosome ones, okay?  Okay. 

So...covering up black eyes...

The simplest way to hide a black eye is to cover it up non-cosmetically. There are a few methods, but some work better than others.

Some people try the sunglasses method.

Sunglasses are cool.

Some people try the crazy hair method.

I'm invisible!



Some people do both. AT THE SAME TIME.

One question...am I ginger?

Sunglasses aren't always practical if you're going to be inside, so I recommend the crazy hair method. Of course, it helps if you actually have crazy hair.

I got your crazy right here.

If you, like me, were blessed...and cursed...with the hair of craziness, then here's what you do.

Arrange the part in your hair drastically so that a curtain of crazy covers up the offending eye. People will see the crazy, and not the black eye. It's that simple.

Works equally well with straight(ish) crazy hair.

If you don't have crazy hair, then just wear sunglasses indoors like it's a thing, or...try a cosmetic method.

Step Four: The Cosmetic Cover-Up

If you're a dude, specifically a dude who isn't in a rock band or some other profession that involves guyliner, then all of these tips might not be for you.  ...unless you are thinking about bringing the "Labyrinth" version of David Bowie back....  You'll also need a pair of tights....

...bad mental images...let's move on....

There are two approaches to cosmetic cover-ups:

a) Concealer:
Concealer is our friend. Even non-guyliner guys can use it. But, it only goes so far. Depending on the severity of the "shiner," concealer might only serve to cover up a little of the damage. Plus, let me tell you that putting makeup on a bruised eye hurts like the dickens.

FYI, the dickens hurts a lot.

b) Cyndi Lauper the mess out of the non-black eye:
That's right. Get out all your 1980s blue and purple eye shadow and go to town.  Just pretend that black eye is how you want it to look and make sure the other eye looks just like it. As the eye bruise changes colors, you can adapt your eye shadow. You can cover the whole black eye color pallete, from blood blister blue to putrid pus puce (I just googled it to make sure, and puce is actually supposed to be a shade of purplish brown, but let's just go along with the rest of the world and pretend it's a pukey green color, okay?). And if anyone gives you a hard time about your make up job, just tell them "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun!" because, really, who can argue with that?

Step Five: Combine Cover-Up Methods to Personalize Your Own "Shiner" Style

Now, unless your hair is particularly crazy, you look REALLY good in 80s makeup, or you seriously think you can just get away with wearing sunglasses all the time (you can't, unless you're Ferris Bueller...or Chuck Norris, but he's never had a black eye), then you're probably going to have to combine methods to come up with a black eye cover-up that fits, nay, DEFINES your personality.

I can't tell you what that will look like for you, but I can tell you what worked for me.

I started, obviously, with the crazy hair. But the severity of my own personal black eye was too great for a mere curtain of strategically parted crazy to fully cover. The hair provided a lovely shadow affect that helped create the illusion that my eye was simply in darkness, and not dark itself.

I then LIGHTLY applied some concealer to the minor dark areas around my bruised eye, along with just a touch of neutral eyeshadow, some eyeliner, and mascara. 

When applying shadow to my good eye, I didn't try to match the intensity of color, but I used purple to at least get it on the same color scheme with the bruise.

Then, in a total switch up, I opted to use glasses (not sunglasses, but the regular type) to help hide the bruise. Ok...so also I was afraid it would hurt to put in my contacts. Because I'm a pansy. A pansy who beats up ninja pirates.

So, there I was. Crazy 80s hair. Semi-crazy 80s make up. Glasses. What else could I do but plan my whole outfit around my black eye cover-up?

Black button down shirt, hot pink cami, rocking the glasses, makeup, and crazy hair. Yep. This was my new look. The Geek Chic, complete with cell phone in the bathroom mirror.

Geek Chic.  Yes, I'm single, nerdy guys. 
I also like Star Trek, Star Wars, AND Doctor Who. 
You can stop drooling on your keyboards, nerdy guys.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is what I do with a black eye. And I rocked it like a legend.

Herosome!

*Note (not an edit, written at time of original publication as a disclaimer): My intention with this blog is to be humorous, never hurtful. If this is a sensitive subject with you because of experiences of bullying, abuse, etc. please note that this is all intended for humor, and the main person I'm poking fun at is me. I'm not suggesting anyone hide evidence of legitimate physical abuse. I'm just having fun with my own klutziness and making lemons out of lemonade.  Because if I have to have a black eye, you'd better believe I'm going to have fun with it.*





SAA Ep. #76: My New Pet

I haven't really had a pet in years, not since I moved out of my parents' house and haven't yet gotten a place that allows cats. And I would have cats. Because let's face it, I'm just a crazy cat lady waiting to happen.

But since I couldn't get a cat, I tried a few years ago to get a Betta fish. Now I had owned a Betta fish for a few years. His name was Gene Kelly...because that fish gotta dance!

I didn't name him, but I thought the name was brilliant.  He was a brilliant fish, in every sense if the word. Well, for a fish he was smart, anyway. He had at least a fraction of the memory capacity of Dory from finding Nemo.

Anyway, Gene Kelly the fish lived to be about three or four, which is a long time for a fish. Gene Kelly the man lived well into his eighties, and danced in roller skates IN the eighties...or seventies...whenever that weird Xanadu movie came out.

So after Gene Kelly died, the fish, not the actor/singer/dancer/God's gift to women, I figured I knew how to keep a fish alive for awhile.

So I visited Pet Smart and adopted the lovely Julie Andrews. She didn't make it through the night. So I packed up her fish carcass and returned it to Pet Smart. I wonder what they do with all their returned fish carcasses....

That night, I brought home Johnny Depp. He made it abut six days before going the way of his fathers. Sleeping with the fishes. Whatever you want to say. He was an ex fishy.

So that was the dark time known as The Week I Killed Julie Andrews and Johnny Depp.

It was also the week Michael Jackson died (the real one, not some fishy moonswimmer). So in retrospect, it was probably a bad idea to post on Facebook that Johnny Depp was dead, without explaining myself....

The actor, Johnny Depp, to my knowledge, is still alive. Captain Jack Sparrow did die once, but they brought him back. Incidentally, Captain Jack Harkness has got Sparrow beat by a LOT on ressurections. But who's counting?

And who's counting how many fish I killed? In a week.  Yeah. Even if I named a fish John Barrowman, I couldn't keep it alive.

I couldn't have fish. I couldn't have cats. I refused to make friends with the palmetto bugs that invaded my apartment (those things are harder to kill than Jack Harkness!). I had my Dragon-Muses, but they aren't pets. I'm more like their pet!

So...it seemed that I would be doomed to have no pets, no little friends to keep me company.

I tried to make the most of it. I pet sat a lot. I borrowed the dog of the kids I watch so I wouldn't have to walk alone. I talked to the stray cat that sometimes lives on my porch, who won't let me come near because it can smell the crazy cat lady on me. But...it just wasn't the same.

Then, one morning, I heard it. It was the strangest sound. Oh, how can I describe it. It was as if a giant witch had swallowed her own pointy fingernails as they were being dragged across a chalkboard while she cackled and simultaneously choked on her aforementioned pointy fingernails.

I had never heard such a noise, so I peeked out my window. And there he was, literally bright eyed and bushy tailed: A SQUIRREL!

He was squawking at some birds who, in his mind, were stealing his breakfast. 

But I soon learned that Phil, as I had named him, was not just a morning squawker. And he didn't just squawk at birds. He squawked at thin air, because that's the kind of nutty squirrel that Phil is. He's actually kind of cranky.

Well, I've realized now that Phil has claimed that tree right outside my bedroom window as his own. He squawks outside at various times throughout the day. It would be nice to think a handsome squirrel was serenading me, but truth is, he's probably singing for some cuter squirrel-type ladies.

But I wasn't completely sure.

Cuz, well, really, all I know abut squirrel love is from the squirrel scene in that Disney flick, "The Sword and the Stone." So, since I wanted to be a good fake owner to Phil, I decided to Google some squirrel courting rituals, you know, just in case the obnoxious squawking wasn't working for him.

It is, right now, in fact, squirrel mating season #2. Squirrels are too squirrelly to have just one season of love.  And Phil's eager, persistent, repetitive squawks were probably intended to attract the ladies.

If he had been successful, my Google searches led me to believe that the female would choose a male to chase her.  Then she would make sure he was chasing her. Then she would run away until either he caught her or she just got tired of running. Then, badda boom, badda bing, the lady squirrel would boss the guy around, the squirrel stork would visit, and the guy squirrel would be like, "See ya!" In other words, a pretty typical romance.

Single mom would raise her kids, kick them out after about three months (abut time, you freeloaders!), then look for a new Mr. Right (Now) to chase her.

Which is so not cool of cartoon Merlin, who led generations of Disney-raised kids to believe that lady squirrels mated for life.  Not cool. I mean, as a child (and possibly also last month), I think I cried a full week on behalf of poor dejected rejected red-headed squirrel.

But Phil, good ol' Phil. I think he's cute, but for some reason, he's just not hitting it off with the ladies. No wonder he's so cranky.

But if I know Phil, I know he won't give up! He won't give up squawking and screaming and chattering, not until he chases a fine lady squirrel right into that tree outside my window.

Right outside my window.

...I want Phil to be happy, but I sure am NOT looking forward to being woken up one morning by the sounds of him entertaining a lady friend.

Sigh.

Maybe I'll just get a pet rock.

And name it Patrick Swayze. He's already dead, so I can't kill him.

Public Service Announcement: The Lesser Known Apocalypse

I've written many a blog about zombies, and for good reason. Well, for good reasonS, actually.  1) People are crazy and like to play with science, so zombies could totally happen.  2) If zombies totally happen, I want everyone to be prepared with red jello.  And not green jello.  3) Even if zombies never totally happen, zombies are still totally cool.  Totally.

I feel like I just got trapped in a movie from 1994.  Let's move on.

In this day and age, what with all the zombie movies and zombie video games and zombie running apps and zombie retellings of classic Jane Austen novels, there really is no excuse for anyone to be caught unawares in the midst of the zombie apocalypse. Even without my informative blog posts, there's so much zombie junk out there that everyone should know how to evade and survive zombie attacks. So if zombies attack and eat your brainz, that's on your own head.

But sometimes it seems as though everyone is talking about the zombies, forgetting that there are other ways this world could meet an untimely demise. Sure, there are any number of apocalyptic movies about evil robots or homicidal aliens or hostile governments gone crazy, but what if the real killer is quiet? What if the real killer is so deadly that it doesn't want to attract any attention?  What if the real killer is lurking above us, never making its sinister intentions known? 

When I went to church as a child, I got bored easily during service.  I know, I know, I should have been paying attention to the sermon, but...I didn't.  Some other more permissive parents let their kids bring toys to "big church," but for some reason my parents thought it was a bad idea to let me bring three coloring books, two packs of crayons, my entire collection of My Little Ponies (which, to be exact, contained...one), a box of Raisinettes, a pack of gum that was large enough to provide weeks of chewing enjoyment to an entire third world country, a handheld video game, a pet ferret, and a magna doodle to church.  Those other kids had it good.  They never got bored during church service.

But I, on the other hand, had little to entertain me.  Sure, I could doodle on the bulletin, but that wasn't terribly diverting. Plus, mom and dad thought that was too much entertainment for me to have in church and put an end to bulletin doodling. So I was forced to look around me.  First, I eyed all the other children who were playing with their various toys and pet ferrets, but that just made me jealous.  So I looked at the stained glass windows, but I wasn't fortunate to go to a church with really fancy windows.  They were just randomly colored squares that went all the way up to the high ceiling in long columns.  No pictures.  No stories.  Just glass.

The ceilings, on the other hand, were pretty cool.  They were high and arched and looked, well...when I was a kid I thought they looked like heaven, all bright and tall and mysterious.  Plus, they had these really cool chandeliers. 

And now that I'm grown up and going to a completely different church in a completely different style of church building, I have to say that it's kind of weird that we have the exact same type of chandeliers.

A chandelier from my current church, which is identical to the chandeliers in the church where I grew up.

 

And I know these are the same kind of chandeliers because I spent so many Sunday mornings and evenings staring at these chandeliers.  Examining them. 

 

Fearing them.

 

What place do chandeliers have in a blog about the Apocalypse?  What if zombies and/or killer robots don't get us?  What if it's the chandeliers?  What if it's always been the chandeliers?

 

Because honestly, most of the time when I was staring at those chandeliers on the heavenly ceiling of my childhood church, I was silently freaking out--because who knows when of those puppies was gonna fall and crush EVERY BODY?

 

And while I was bored in church, I entertained myself by thinking up escape plans, things to do in case the chandeliers attacked.

 

I have decided to pass my thoughts on to you, just in case, JUST IN CASE the Chandelier Apocalypse is ever upon us. 

 

The Chandelier Apocalypse Survival Plan:

 

1. Be prepared*

 

Look, I'm not advocating that you never pay attention in church.  You should totally pay attention in church.  Even if it's a guest speaker.  Don't go away from this blog post saying, "She said we should not pay attention in church" because that's NOT what I'm saying. 

 

What I am saying is this.  Kids don't pay attention in church.  Do you know what kids do in church?  Well, provided you haven't brought a whole blasted circus in a bag for them to play with, kids will find anyway to entertain themselves while sitting in church.  So talk to your kids, see if they have noticed the GIANT FREAKIN' CHANDELIERS above their heads.  Chances are, they have.  Chances are, they're secretly scared of them.  Chances are, they're just WAITING for the day when one of the chandelier's chains break, causing a literal chain reaction where all the other chandeliers also decide to fall, crushing everyone in their midst. 

 

So make your kids the informants.  Talk to your kids about the dangers of chandeliers.  If you don't, who will?  Make sure your kids know it's okay to scream bloody murder in the middle of a church service if the chandeliers start to fall.  In fact, let them know that it is their duty to scream bloody murder in the middle of a church service if the chandeliers start to fall.  And if they don't scream bloody murder in church service if the chandeliers start to fall, then it will be ALL THEIR FAULT if everyone dies.  Really drive home that past point.  This is serious bidiziness.

 

*Also, don't think you will escape the apocalypse if you don't go to church.  Chandeliers are everywhere.  Restaurants. Mansions. Light fixture stores.  You really can't avoid them.  Don't even try.

 

 

 

2. Special Operations Deacon Training

 

Deacons are awesome.  They pass around plates.  And I know that's not even the most important thing that they do, but let's face it.  That's the coolest thing they do.  I mean, those guys can work it.  Most worship leaders give the deacons a good five minute offertory song for them to get those plates passed around.  Dude, pssh.  I've seen deacons cover the whole flippin' room in less than thirty seconds.  They're amazing, they are. 

 

In fact, I'll bet they've all had Special Ops Deacon Training.  SODT.  Yep, yep.  And I see NO reason why deacons can't incorporate some chandelier evasion and defense strategies into their training.  In fact, they might have already thought of that.  When the chandeliers attack, I'll bet they start throwing around those special offering plates like ninja stars, taking out the "chandies" before they have a chance to strike.  I feel safer already.

 

If your church doesn't have SODT, you need to call up your pastor and request, nay DEMAND, SODT.  I'm only thinking of the safety of the flock.

 

 

 

3. Mood Music!

 

If your church has an organ, you're in luck!  Well, actually, scratch that.

 

If your church has an organ AND an organist, you're in luck.  The organist should be prepared AT ALL TIMES to rush to the organ in light of a chandelier attack.

 

When the "chandies" start to fall, it's time to play some "Phantom of the Opera." 

 

You know I'm right on this.

 

 

 

4. Recycle!

 

When was the last time you used a hymnal.  Really.  Think about it. 

 

When I was a kid, hymnals were amazing.  The worship leader would tell you the page number (if you hadn't already looked it up from the bulletin), and the whole worship center would be filled with the beautiful sound of pages turning.  And the aroma!  Ah!  The lovely smell of hymnal paper, filling the sanctuary like holy incense. 

 

Alas, hymnals have gone the way of their fathers.  Now, all the words to all the non-hymnal songs are up on a big screen, and the hymnals are sitting there collecting dust, wishing they could be used again.

 

Well, when the chandeliers attack, the hymnals CAN be used again!  Those things were made to last.  They could make awesome "chandy" protective helmets!

 

When the first alert child screams bloody murder during the church service, that is your cue!  Grab your hymnal!  When the first deacon starts throwing around his offering plate, put your hymnal on your head!  When you see your friends and family wearing hymnals on their heads, resist the urge to laugh.  When you hear the organist start playing, "DUUUUUUUUUH!  DUH DUH DUH DUH DUUUUUUH!" start screaming and panicking.

 

Why?  Because it's an apocalypse.  Everybody screams and panics.

 

 

 

5. Run away!

 

Seriously, folks.  Those "chandies" be crazy.

 

 

 

 

6. Regroup

 

When you are free of the worship center, having evaded the chandeliers, attempt to locate all members of your immediate family or those who were seated nearest to you.  If you cannot locate a friend or family member, DO NOT attempt to go back into the worship center.  We don't need any heroes here.  That's what the deacons are for.

 

 

 

 

--Special Circumstances

 

The previous steps were all directed towards members of the church congregation.  Being a member of the choir and praise team at my own church, I understand that there are times when the normal rules will not apply to you. 

 

If you are a church greeter, you probably should have at least some basic SODT.  I'm not saying you should be able to wield an offering plate like a true deacon, but you need some rudimentary skill if you're going to make sure the visitors get out alive.  We want visitors to come back, right?  Right.  And if they are killed by rogue chandeliers, they can't come back.  So get the visitors out alive.

 

If you are a choir member, you need to learn how to pole vault.  When the chandeliers start falling, the choir members closest to the stage microphones need to grab them, MAKE SURE THEY ARE UNPLUGGED, and use them to pole vault into the baptistery.  Then hand the microphone off to another panicked choir member.  And if you're electrocuted in the process, I'm sorry.  But if it's any consolation, the "chandies" were probably going to kill you anyway.  They don't care if you are first soprano.

 

If you're a member of the praise band or praise team, make way for the drum cage.  Do not pass go.  Do not collect $200.  The drum cage is made out of material that could withstand anything.  Anything.  You're safe.  You're probably the only safe ones in the building, maybe even on the whole planet...as long as you can make it to the drum cage before the "chandies" get you.

 

True story.  I mean, why do you think I'm on the praise team, anyway?  It's because I want easy access to the drum cage.

 

Hmm...maybe I should take drum lessons...

 

The most vulnerable person in the church?  The organist, of course.  While he/she is playing "Phantom," he/she is likely to be chandeliered to death.  Think I'm wrong?  How many church organists do you know?  I rest my case.

 

 

Well, there you have it, the Chandelier Apocolypse Survival plan.  I sincerely hope you will ever need it, but let's face it.  It's only a matter of time before those chandelier chains snap.  And when they snap, be ready. 

 

The "chandies" have no mercy. 

 

SAA Ep. #75: The Scariest Thing About My Weekend

There are many things that scare me. Spiders. Check. Snakes. Double check. Clowns. INFINITY check.

Basically, the greatest horror movie of all time would be about a creepy rodeo clown riding on the back of a giant spider and using a big ol' snake as his lasso. Seriously, you can thank me for the nightmares you'll have later on tonight.

But my scary weekend had nothing to do with clowns or snakes. There were a few spiders...and centipedes, but none of them were particularly scary. The only thing really scary about them was that I kept hearing high school aged kids say things like, "Ooh! A centipede! I'll pay you a dollar if you eat it!"

As scary as that was, it could have been worse. It could have been much, much worse. After hearing such an offer, I began silently praying I wouldn't hear an even scarier counter-offer:

"Make it TWO dollars, and we've got a deal!"

But no one said that, at least not to my knowledge....

Yes, I spent my weekend with something much scarier than spiders, snakes, or even clowns. I spent my weekend with...

YOUNG ADULTS!

THE HORRRRRROR!

Last Saturday, I was at work, minding my own business, not knowing the terror that awaited. Because at church Sunday morning, the youth pastor announced they were still short a couple of workers for a weekend-long youth event known as Disciple Now. And since I didn't have to work the following Saturday (which is now the previous Saturday...I know, I'm confused, too), I figured I might as well do something useful.

The problem? I work mostly with preschoolers and elementary school aged kids. High schoolers are a-whole-nother thing. I don't know nuttin bout leadin no high schoolers! And being a socially awkward individual, I must admit I was more than a little intimidated by those sweet, beautiful young ladies God placed in my group.

But it was a wonderful weekend. I was with another leader who is as about as extroverted as a human being can be, so she more than made up for my lack of awesome. It was a blessed time, and those beautiful young women with servants' hearts did yard work and played games and worshipped and just generally rocked. It was encouraging to experience.

I did learn I'm not as young as I used to be. I pulled pretty much every muscle in my entire left leg sprinting after the young ladies as we played a game against the other groups. And even sprinting at my fastest, I couldn't keep up with ANY of them. And I realized I hadn't sprinted in a church since *I* was an intimidating young adult.

But the weekend was amazing. The youth learned a lot; I leaned a lot. No one got hurt, not even Grace, whom EVERYONE warned me to try to make sure she didn't get hurt. I try not to use names, but it's just so ironic that the most accident prone one in my group, in possibly the whole youth group, is named Grace.

So, yes. All in all, despite the not-really-so-intimidating-after-all young adults, despite the spiders and centipedes that hopefully did not get eaten, despite the ridiculously scary amounts of calories I consumed in the form of chocolate chip cookies and potato chips, the weekend wasn't really all that scary.

But there was still one thing that terrified me this weekend. In fact, this one thing scared me more than all the other things combined. It might be the scariest thing I'm all the known universe.

You see, during the weekend, I stayed in a host home. The host home belonged to a wonderful family who had a wonderful middle school aged daughter who was saying with another group at another host home. So I got to sleep in her room.

Middle school aged girls have very scary bed rooms.

And so for two nights, I got to fix my hair and make up, change clothes, and sleep, all while THIS was staring at me:

Story Time #3: Why I Don't Like Lilac

The story you're about to read is true. The names have been omitted because I can't remember most of them anymore.

Long ago in a far away land, there was a learning institution for average teenage muggles. It was a very special place known as "public high school."

The teachers at the public school were also muggles, except for one odd English teacher who might have been a squib. The squib mostly brooded and performed his own bad emo poetry for the victims in his class, whilst the other teachers engaged in various lighthearted muggle activities known as "pranks"...and also occasionally taught their classes.

All was merry in the land of public high school, until one fateful day, the anatomy teacher began a prank feud with the precalculus teacher. No one can recall how it began, no one can remember who dealt the first foul prank blow, but all who lived through such desperate days could tell you exactly how it ended.

It was springtime. A lovely day. A day where anything could happen. But no one could expect this.

THE SPANISH INQUISITION! Wait. No. Wrong story. Shh.

As the unsuspecting muggle students made their way to the anatomy lab that warm spring morning, a curious, foul smell greeted their offended nostrils. To their horror, the odor only grew more evil as they neared the classroom.

And when one brave soul opened the door, as a cloud of toxic fumes filled the hallway, a strange sight also appeared before the students' eyes. The anatomy teacher, a surgical mask covering his face, was leaping around the anatomy lab like a ballerina, dispersing the entire contents of a can of air freshener as he carried out his frantic dance.

The air freshener did not mask the scent, the scent that was so repulsive, so unidentifiable.

Was it a science experiment gone wrong? Was it the anatomy teacher's lunch that had accidentally been left in the classroom over a long weekend? No. It was...it was...it was....

A prank.

A prank gone horribly awry.

The precalculus teacher had gone too far. He had placed an item in the room the night before, in a failed attempt to merely freak the anatomy teacher out.

Well, the attempt wasn't really failed, for the anatomy teacher was indeed sufficiently freaked out...and possibly scarred for life...along with his innocent students.

For the precalculus teacher did not realize the stench his prank would bring, nor how long said stench would linger, nor how useless a mere can of air freshener would be against it.

The dreaded, smelly item? What was it? What could possibly cause such a foul stench?

It was...it was.............

A. Cow. Placenta.

Yep.

No one knows how this disgusting object was acquired. One can only hope the precalculus teacher wasn't stalking poor, pregnant cows, waiting for his chance to strike. Maybe there is a black market for odd bovine...stuff.  But no matter how he obtained it, the precalculus teacher was blissfully unaware that the afterbirth of a cow could produce such a potent aroma when left on another teacher's desk overnight.

The precalculus teacher, ashamed by his bizarre and smell-producing actions, declared an end to the prank feud. And once again the land of public high school was at peace. Except for all the teenage angst. And the bad squib emo poetry.

But the stench that the prank left behind lingered for many days. It mingled with the scent of the canned air freshener, creating a new fragrance, more ghastly and stubborn than the first.

Because if there's anything that smells worse than two-day-old cow placenta, it's lilac scented two-day-old cow placenta.

You can take my word for it. I was there. I breathed the evil scent with my own two nostrils, and they have never forgotten.

They never will.

The moral to this story, of course, is: "A rolling cow placenta gathers no lilacs."

Wait, no.

How about: "Those who steal cow placentas shouldn't throw lilacs"?

Um...

"Slow and steady wins the cow placenta"?

"A placenta in the hands is worth two in the cow"?

"Placenta cometh before the fall"?

Ah.

"Leave a sleeping cow placenta where it lies."

That's the one.

SAA Ep.#74: Rude and Not Ginger

So since we last met, I have succumbed to the inevitable. People told me it would happen, and I think that deep down, I knew it was only a matter of time. Wibbly, wobbly time. Wime.

Yes. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I have become a Whovian, a fan, a fanatic really, of Doctor Who. And if you've been following me on Facebook, you already knew that. Because when I really like something, I don't just really like something. I obsess. I talk, post, geek out about it constantly. And the only thing to do is to let it run its course. Sorry Facebook followers.  It's likely to only take a few months...or years. Not that long....

But this is not a post about Doctor Who.

This is a post about my hair. And before you get all uppity and call "Foul! You already wrote a post about your hair and its general tendency to get all out of control and sometimes eat small children," I'm not talking about my hair's general tendency to get all out of control and sometimes eat small children. ...Ok, well. Yes. There is that.

But more importantly...



I'm not ginger.




See, I've always wanted to be ginger-which is something the Doctor and I have in common (and if you're confused and have to ask 'Doctor Who?' then you've already answered your own question, sweetie). The Doctor has never been ginger, either.





It's so sad, because I have several ginger friends and a ginger nephew and a VERY ginger niece. So I am forced to see all these gorgeous people with hair resplendent like the noonday sun, and here I am with blah nonginger blah hair of blahness.

I have gotten so fed up with my nongingerness that I've artificially made myself ginger, but it's just not the same coming from a box of Natural Instincts, is it? Natural? No. The box lies.

The ginger is a lie.

I cannot live with ginger lies.

But see, I have all the basic ginger qualities. Hot temper. Extreme paleness. Or is that the other way around? Hmm....

At any rate, its just not fair that I have the complexion and temperament of a ginger without actually being ginger. It's like God's cruel joke. "Let there be Ruth. Let her be made like a ginger in every way. But not actually ginger. That will really burn her bisquick."

I kid. I kid. God knows what He's doing. Ginger is power, and I'm not worthy to weild it. "If you only knew the power of the ginger." "With great ginger comes great responsibility." "I want the ginger! You can't handle the ginger!" "It's not the wizard that chooses the ginger, but the ginger that chooses the wizard." "They're taking the gingers to Isengard." ...I think I've gotten off track...

Oh. Yes. Right.

The truth is, I'm just not worthy to be ginger.

But I have hope. This ten year old boy-type ginger came into the drop in center the other day. I commented on his hair, congratulating him on being ginger, lamenting over the fact that I was not ginger.

What he said next were the words my ears had wanted to hear since the day of my birth-that day when the doctor (NO! Not THAT Doctor) pulled me screaming from my mother's womb, slapped me on the rear, and proclaimed me "NOT A GINGER!"  Since then, I'd been longing, hoping, praying...and that amazing young man uttered such fateful words:

"There is ginger in you," he said with great emotion, "I can sense it."

Actually, what he said was, "Your hair is mostly brown and blonde, but I can see some red in it, too. Can I stop talking to you about hair and play xbox now?"

Most people would not pay that any attention, but after years of being NOT GINGER, I was going to take what I could get. And if a cool ginger ten year old proclaimed me "part ginger," then I would take it.

Oh, yes. I would.

I'm part ginger, puny mortals. Cower before me! My hair, while not quite resplendent like the noonday sun, is at least radiant like the innards of a day-old glowstick. Cower! Cower before me!

Meh. Actually, being part ginger isn't all that amazing. Because deep down, what I really want is to be ginger AND Scottish. Because let's face it, with my Edward-Cullenish-avert-your-eyes-lest-my-whiteness-burn-your-corneas-complexion and my out-of-control-child-eating-part-ginger hair, I could totally pass for Scottish.

Like David Tennant.
Only a girl.
And not nearly as awesome.

Actually, it was just a few generations back that my ancestors decided to be Americans instead of Scots and came across the pond to the land of amber waves of grain (Seriously, even the grain gets to be ginger, too? Not cool. Consider my bisquick burned). So really, the Scot is in my blood. On both sides of my family. Hmm. You could even say I'm part Scottish.

Part ginger. Part Scottish. But only part. Yeah, that will have to do. Cuz I don't want to press my luck.
Because, see, when I say I want to be ginger and Scottish, this is what I have in mind:

Maybe this post really is about Doctor Who...

But in actuality, if I were all Scottish and ginger, I'd probably look more like this:

Change your fate? Get a flat iron.

Yeah.
I'll just be happy being part ginger and part Scottish.

But no matter. I'm still ALL awkward.

Fun With Autocorrect Ep. 2

Just for kicks, sometimes I like to Swype out adventures and not correct the autocorrect...you know, just to see what happens. Here we go!

Walking The New Scary Trail

Being as rubber is ruin, but I'm not one to Rt new things very often. Do when I rub, I like to rib the same paths over and over. My favorite places to run ate up and down a nearby street, out just sound and sorry the mile loop at a park.

But in the pat few months, a new ridiculously long ruining trail had opened yo near whet I line. Lots of my running friends have tagged about it, so I figures I'd give it a Rt. But I have to admit, I was a little nevis. I don't like new things, being socially weekend and all. 

In fact, I might not have tried out ie at all if it weren't for the fact that the trial opens up at the soccer complex where the girls I watch have soccer practice. I took one of the girls I've night and figured I mint ad well walk the trial during get ninety mine practice.

After doing the fourteen year pork of at her field, I made may way to the trail. It was light it, but not stingy. It was one if those spooky overcast hats that make you feel as thought you were in a horror mine.  Before I even got to the trail, I felt crepes out.

I started walking the trail, trying to fitter out the mile markings. It was not vet easy. I tried memorizing kamala, like signs and Ricks and random tank things.

About a quarter mile in, I saw an overlord that had a sign sniff beavers. It said that beavers livers in the area automating the trail, and even tooth they mainly titled at night, I might see stoke fallen tees out fans, evidence if the beavers.

So I stared looking door breeders and I walked. Mostly I just saw birds and squirrels and scary looking runner dudes that could have killed me if tiger decided that works be mute fun than running.

I didn't like how remote the trail seemed on that spooky, sunless day. I always feel safe if I fugees um in screaming distance of other Perle. In the two, only the scary runners, the squirrels, the hurts, and the elusive braces could hear me.

That want enough to make NE feel safe.

Plus, I was listening to Mt ruining app admit zombies, which always makes ruining mite freaky dink.

Well, I finally decided to walk back to the cover complex, still crepes it's by the remit trail, when ourof the Crowder of my err, I saw something mice in the first! Was it a scary runner murdered dude? Was it a zombie? Was it a cranky pants squirrel?

No. It was a brave. It saw me and scanners array, but it was dorky as beaver.

In the way back to the complex, I finally figured air the mile markets, at least somewhat. I figured if try that trail out again assert all.

The next tinge I walked it, the sun was shining. There ware less scary ruining dudes and lots of other waffling and ruining ladies. There were squirrels and birds, but no beavers.

Aww.

I guess the question still relations. If e call then beavers, why Sony three brave?

SAA Ep. #73: The Grown Up Birfday

I turned another year older the other day. Well, actually, I just turned another day older, but another number was added to my age, making it seem as if an entire year had passed while I peacefully slept. I went to bed one night as a young, beautiful, talented, humble girl of 32.  I woke up the next morning and was suddenly the same age Jesus was when He died.

Birthdays can be real jerks.

I never saw them like that as a kid. I guess getting older was cool back then, and the day really was all about me. The clearest birthday in my memory was my sixth birthday. I wore this wonderfully awful pink 80s sweatsuit. I wore it to match what I knew I would get at school. I had, in fact, been waiting for it all year. The Birthday Crown.

I think I hear angels singing, even after all these years.

Yeah, so the Birthday Crown was a silly hat made out of construction paper. But to a kindergartener, it was serious bidizness. Which rappers have led me to believe is more serious than regular type business.

I think the Birthday Crown meant even more to me than it did to other kindergartners. My mom had just had another baby (a brother, and not the little sister I wanted) four months prior to my sixth birthday, which kind of forever sealed my fate as the attention-seeking middle child. You'd better believe that Birthday Crown was important.

I asked for a pink one, even though the weary-looking TA already had pink paper waiting to go. I'm pretty sure I ruined pink for that lady forever. She probably still gets nervous around bottles of pepto bismal, and wakes up from nightmares about bubble gum monsters.

Yeah, she wrote my name and age on the Birthday Crown. She measured it to my head and secured it with scotch tape. ...and, just like that, it was on like Diddy Kong.

I don't actually know what that last phrase even means.

Anyway, I wore that stupid paper crown all day. All. Day. I wore it to the cafeteria, knowing that the lunch ladies would gush over me as they served me a rectangular pizza-like substance. And they did. My Birthday Crown meant that everyone would know it was my special day. I did princess waves. I batted my eyelashes. It was all about me, as children are led to believe birthdays should be.

Fast-forward 19 years. I got dumped on my 25th birthday. Uh...let's move on...

Birthdays as a grown up just aren't as cool as kid birthdays. Not only is getting older suddenly not fun anymore, but we can't stop the world and make it all about us anymore.

I had to go to work on my birthday-on a Monday, no less. And no one remembered. No one brought me a cupcake or anything  :-(. So I went about my business, watching kids as if it were any other day. I must admit, I thought about making myself a pink Birthday Crown so everyone would see the importance of my special day, but for whatever reason, acceptable six-year-old behavior is frowned upon when you're 33.

My car payment was due on my birthday. I mean, shouldn't banks just let me have a month "on the house" when it's my birthday? If I were a six year old, I bet they would. But I've never seen a six year old take out a tricycle loan....

I was also sick on my birthday. A cold. A tummy ache. Good job, Birthday Fairies. I asked for a David Tennant and a T.A.R.D.I.S.  for my birthday. You give me snot. Not what I asked for. You fail, Birthday Fairies. 

Well, I decided I wanted pancakes for my birthday. Some people have this rule that birthday calories don't count. It would be nice if that were true, but I'm pretty sure the scale doesn't distinguish between birthday calories and regular calories. There would be weight related consequences if I ate a whole cake on my birthday. Calories are another grown up birthday downer.

Anyway, because I still wanted birthday pancakes, regardless of calories, I invited a bunch of people over to IHOP. I figured out if there was going to be any birthday awesomeness, I'd have to generate it for myself. When I was a kid, birthday awesomeness just happened. Was it the Birthday Fairies? Was it Mom and Dad? Was it that everything just seemed more awesome when I was a kid? Idk. Birthdays just aren't as easy as they used to be.

I mean, I had to drive myself to IHOP. On my birthday. I had to observe the speed limit and obey traffic laws, because I'm pretty sure that police officers still expect you NOT to go 80 in a 55 zone on your birthday. But you know what? Even though I was careful to obey traffic laws and not get a birthday ticket (Aww, Mr. Police Man, you shouldn't have!), I still got rear ended. On my birthday.

I was sitting at a stoplight, minding my own birthday bidizness, and suddenly "BANG!" I just shook my head, thinking about how my rear bumper had probably just gone the way of its fathers.

The Birthday Fairies were kind enough to grant me some grace with that. The lady who rear ended me was a mess. Her foot had slipped off the brake. She was stressed out. She was nearly in tears. The amazing thing was, neither one of our cars were damaged. At all. I still had a bumper. It wasn't even scratched (well, not from THAT accident). My beloved half marathon sticker wasn't even scuffed. So I gave the stressed-out stranger lady an awkward hug, because, well, I'm a hugger.

And we went on our ways.

Because dealing with car insurance junk for no good reason on my birfday? Ain't nobody got time fo dat!

It was too early for pancakes (wait, that isn't possible-let's say I was too early for pancakes for dinner), so I went window shopping. Because I didn't have money to buy random stuff, and stores don't generally give away stuff just because it's my birthday...sigh.  Seriously, having birthdays as a grown up just isn't as cool.

As a kid, birthdays were incredible. I got attention and special treatment. It was like being a princess for a day.

Then, being a grown up happened, and suddenly birthdays are just ordinary days. You have to pay bills and deal with stuff like car issues and sickness. You have to go to work. No one notices or cares. You have to think about calories. Sometimes you even get your heart broken. Because sometimes grown-up birthdays are jerks.

But I went to IHOP with some lovely friends. I got attention and love, I got presents (including a Captain America puzzle that is almost as awesome as a David Tennant). I got free pancakes, because IHOP offers a free meal for birthdays. Because some people get it that birthdays are still pretty special days.

And I even got a Birthday Crown.

SAA Ep. #72: When Cookies Talk

About two and a half weeks ago, I reread this fascinating, albeit rambling, blog about my own awkward methods of losing weight. After reading it, I realized I needed to take my own advice. Over the holiday season, I'd put on a little weight.

And by "the holiday season," I mean July-December (Independence Day is a holiday, right?).

And by "a little weight," I mean 20 pounds.

So I went back to being a good little Calorie Nazi, and in the past two and a half weeks, I've dropped at least 4 of those regained pounds (I weigh in on Mondays, but it was 4 pounds at the last count).

Things have gone well. I've stayed well within my calorie limits. I've exercised a lot. I'm feeling awesome.

But something happened today that I did not expect. Something awful, and wonderful...and awful...

A few weeks ago I'd ordered some Girl Scout cookies from my favorite local Girl Scout. I had ordered them before I decided to start counting calories and losing weight. I figured then that a few cookies wouldn't hurt. But now that I'm a Calorie Nazi again, these cookies aren't just cookies. They're cheerfully packaged, sugar coated, high calorie discs of evil.

I took these cookies into my home, knowing how few of them it would take to cancel out a whole week's worth of workouts.  I didn't know what to do, so I took them out and looked at them.

...that's when the real struggle began...

I heard a voice, a faint voice, say "Gracias."

"What was that?" I asked, knowing I was in the apartment alone, unless I'd completely forgotten about taking in some new Hispanic roommate....

"Oh, don't worry about TAL. He isn't much of a conversationalist," another voice said. This one was much higher pitched, and much more annoying, than the first. "Are you going to eat us now? Oh, please do!"

"Who said that?" I demanded.

"It's me!" the voice said with a giggle. "Your box of Lemonades!  We are crunchy and sweet! Eat us! Eat us like butterfly pie!"

Amazed, I stared at the five different boxes of cookies on my counter. "But...you're cookies. You can't talk!"

"Of course we can talk," another voice said. "Either that or you're crazy. Hunger can do that to people. I suggest you eat us."

Flabbergasted, I shook my head. "Um...which one of you spoke that time?"

"That was TMI," a completely different voice answered.

"Mango, I told you NOT to call me that!" The cookie box sighed. "I'm Thin Mint. THAT was Mango Creme."

"And I'M," proclaimed another box if cookies, seemingly indignant that I had not addressed it yet, "Caramel DeLite. Formerly known as Samoa. You can call me Sam."

"I call you DeLITEful!" Lemonade squealed with a giggle.

"Asante," said the first voice.

"Let me guess," I said. "That was Thanks-a-lot."

"Oh yes!" Lemonade exclaimed. "TAL is so funny!"

"You're...all funny. Weird funny," I said.

"Weird? Me?" Sam said haughtily. "You just be glad it's just us. There are more of us, you know. Ol' PB Pattie is REALLY a nutter." 

"And Shout Out isn't here, either," Mango said gruffly. "I'm glad you didn't order any of that jerk. If I have to hear that fool shout, "LEAD" one more time, Imma lead him off a cliff."

"I'm surprised short bread isn't here," Lemonade laughed. "That guy always likes to Tag-a-long."

"Must you ALWAYS be so cheerful?" Mango asked Lemonade.

"You know what they say, when life gives you lemons, eat cookies!"

"Yes. Eat cookies," Sam agreed. "If you're through with the introductions, we really would like for you to eat us now."

Again, I shook my head. "You...you WANT me to eat you?"

"Oh yes!" laughed Lemonade. "Getting eaten is our purpose in life."

"She's right," Thin Mint agreed. "We were made to be eaten. You can start with me."

"No, me!" said Mango.

"No, me!" said Sam.

"Hsieh Hsieh," said TAL.

I took a moment to gather my thoughts, then said, "Look, guys...uh...cookies. I'm afraid I have some bad news. ...I am counting my calories."

"That sounds like fun!" chimed Lemonade. "Are calories like butterflies?"

"Uh, no." I said. "And...I'm afraid all of you have too many calories."

"Yay! We're wrapped in a calorie butterfly cocoon of joy," Lemonade breathed happily.

"Again," I said firmly. "NO. You have too many calories. That means I can't eat you."

A collective gasp rose from the cookies.

Even Lemonade sounded disheartened when she...it...said, "But...but...what about the cocoon. We were going to be reborn in your tummy to fly evermore."

"Lemon," Mango said calmly, "I WILL punch you in the face."

"Cookies don't have faces!" Lemonade squealed. "But if we did, I would have a sour puss!"

Mango growled. "This is serious. I mean, what do you mean you can't eat us. I'm nutritious! I have nutrifusion, enhanced with nutrients derived from fruit. I'm healthy!"

"Oh, puh-leeze!" Sam scoffed. "You can read your own box and still miss the words 'artificially flavored.' You aren't healthy. The cookie is a lie. You're just a big box of lie cookies."

"Yeah!" Thin Mints agreed.

"Merci," said TAL.

"Oh yeah, Sam," Mango retorted. "What about you, huh? Your name is a lie. Yours too, THIN Mint. Its a clever marketing scheme. If you're THIN, how can you possibly be unhealthy? Right? RIGHT? Ha! You're not even thin, really. You're just small-chocolated.  And YOU, Sam. Caramel DeLITEs? Who are you fooling, you caramel coconut fatty fatty fathead."

"Ha! That's funny," Lemonade laughed gleefully. "And mean."

"Everyone calm down," I huffed. "I think it's fair to say that none of I are as healthy as you claim."

"But what about my nutrafusion?" Mango asked.

"Sounds like hippy food to me," I said with a shrug.

"Yeah," Sam said sullenly. "If hippies got their food from laboratories instead of hippy farmers."

"Shut it, you," Mango threatened.

"Look," I sighed, "I can eat you guys. I will. I promise. But...it might take me awhile. I will have to eat you one at a time, and not every day. It could take months to finish you all."

Mango seemed satisfied. "Well, that should be okay. We do have a good shelf life."

"You should," Thin Mint snickered. "You have a lot of artificial preservatives."

"You could just put us in the freezer," Sam suggested.

"Oh, yes!" chirped Lemonade. "The freezer is like an icy winter butterfly cocoon of joy."

"There's your hippy cookie," Thin Mint said dryly.

I had had enough. "Ok. Everyone into the freezer. Thin Mints, you first."

"I really do think you're just going crazy from hunger," Thin Mint said as I put the box inside the freezer.

"It's better this way," Sam said as his turn came. "I taste even better when frozen."

"Oh, just put me in the freezer already," said Mango. So I did.

"You know what I've always wondered about Girl Scout cookies?" Lemonade asked as I picked up her box.

"What?" I asked hesitantly.

"How come we don't taste like actual Girl Scouts?"

I sighed and put her in the freezer.

Then I picked up TAL, expecting to hear some annoying word of thanks in some weird language. But he was silent. So I put him in the freezer and closed him inside with the others.

But as I turned away to continue my dictatorship as Calorie Nazi, I heard a faint voice whisper, "Thank You."

Fun With Autocorrect Episode 1

I just got a smart phone back in December, and I was finally able to start using it at the beginning of the month. Having a smart phone has made my life easier. I can now just tell Google: "grumpy cat" and it will look up hundreds of images of that cute little furball, and deliver them right to my phone. Only sometimes it gets confused and thinks I said, "crumpled bat," and I don't really want to see any pics of that guy.

Another way my phone has misunderstood me is via Swype. I used to make fun of people who sent weird typos or strange words in texts, but now I get it. I get it like pie.

I have no idea what that meant.

Anyway, to do what I do best, turn awkwardness into hilarity, I'm going to Swype out a mundane story and NOT correct the mistakes that autocorrect corrected. Does that make sense? I don't know. But I hope this will be funny. And not too inappropriate. Because autocorrect sure seems to like being naughty. Here goes:

A Trip to Walmart by Socially Awkward Girl:

One day I went yo Walmart to buy syne stuff. I was out of Shani and conditioner. I also needed syne deodorant because I was out and sometimes I sumo.  I also needed see food because reading is fun and kind of impotent if you d want to nut fur.

So I went to get my Tuileries, and there in the middle of the agile was a skiing cat.  I couldn't get asking the shopping cat.  it Furth have anything in it, but I thought it might belong to someone ego also wanted to but deodorant.  I tried, but my cart was too wide to get stringy the other shopping cart. 

I was nervous. I looked both ways, Hong no one would see Mt move the song carry.  What if someone had pt an alarm on it and it aster being in the mogul of the sir? I would be do embarrassed.  But I was bold and brave enough to rich that cart  and I nudged it or of the wast.  No one even knew the stiffened.

It then leaned down to get my deodorant and realized they were out. So I Sigurd if just be stinky fur a wholly.

Then I went to get my shampoo, and three was a least there reading the label and I coign Getty pray her. I Bede the same stamp she was looking at. I waited a bit, but fired it was to much terrible, and I fled the aisle before she cod talk to me or emerging equally scary.

Them I went to get food. I got stunt you're and some peruse and see surface and Dunne pirates. The latex were particularly fresh.

I didn't get any salad because UT looked beige. And I was or of shag dressing and didn't think about buying any mute.

Then I guy syne I've cream, because I like ice can.

I went to the self checkout to avoid taking to puerile, but the machine went crazy and the annoyed checkout dude had to come help me. Really, I just let him scam my items fir Mr, which was naturally like I had give to a deviously checkout Kane in the first paddle. But I didn't.

Then I took my groceries home and put them in the Grieg. All except fit the I've crash.  That I are with a soon dyestuffdrum the creation.

Then I webby r sheep braids the asterisk intersection Weir me out.

The end.