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

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

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

That's all I want.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Honest mistake, right?  No harm done, right?

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

Here's what I'm talking about:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because I'm Socially Awkward Girl.

That's why.

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

SSA Ep.#58: Shoepping

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SSA Ep. # 28: I Don't Work At Wal-mart, but I Play One On TV

I live in a small (but quickly growing) town that is extremely close to a much larger town.  Because I'm originally from a town that's about as small as the town in which I am currently living, large towns are too big for me.  Most people would consider the much larger town near my small town to be...well, still kind of smallish.  I think of it as a big city...a metropolis, if you will.  I've only been downtown a couple of times, and even then, someone else was driving.  It's because I'm scared of the metropolis...even if the metropolis is really just a large town.

Now, I was either in middle school or high school when something remarkable happened in my small hometown.  It was an event that changed that small town forever.  What was this remarkable event? 

We got a Super Wal-mart.

Never again would we have to make trips to multiple stores.  Wal-mart now had Wal-marty things AND grocieries.  It changed my life, I tell you.  And I knew it was because I was from a small town.  Only in small towns would people get excited about the opening of a Super Wal-mart, right?

Only...a few months ago, in this large town/metropolis that is near the small town where I currently reside, a new Super Wal-mart opened.  And people went crazy.  Apparently, Wal-mart is a big deal whether you live in a small town or a big town. 

I like Wal-mart.  I like it a lot.  I like it because I can get a week's worth of groceries, a birthday present for my niece, a hair dryer, a pair of jeans, and a turkey baster--all in the same place.   If I can find a short check-out lane, I can get in and out in about half an hour.  I like it because it's comfortable.  I know the layout of the store so well that I don't even have to plan my shopping route.  (Other people do that, too, right?  You plot out the best path from the shampoo aisle to the produce aisle, taking account the possible traffic you might find in women's clothing and jewelry as compared to the open aisle next to electronics...right?)  I like it also because I know I'm going to spend less money on all my random purchases, because let's face it--nothing says "CHEAP" like Wal-mart.  The thing I have to be careful about is getting distracted by shiny objects and buying things I don't really need.  But if I'm careful and stick to my list, I'm safe. 

Wal-mart and I are good buddies.  BFFs.  We get along just great.  The only problem I really have with Wal-mart is that I've heard they don't treat their employees very well.  I've had a lot of friends who have worked at Wal-mart who have confirmed this.  The way they spoke, Wal-mart was like the darkest, deepest, most depressing pit of evil imaginable ever.

Shrug.

I've never worked at Wal-mart.  Never.

I've been mistaken for a Wal-mart worker more times than I can count.

The first time it happened, I was standing in the deodorant aisle, looking for...well, deodorant.  This older middle aged woman came up to me and asked me where the tampons were.  My first thought was to say, "Are you sure someone your age still needs them?" but instead I just smiled and said I wasn't sure.  She got a all moody and huffed away, which only confirmed my original suspicion that this woman was long past her need for tampons.  Then I realized what had just occurred.  She was asking me where something was because she thought I worked there.

This was the first of many incidents.  There was the lady who asked me if I had any more shirts in her size.  There was the gentleman who asked me to do a price check for him.  There was the other gentleman who wanted me to help him find something.  When I told him I didn't work there, he asked to speak with my manager. 

...?

Yeah.  I'm not sure what it is about me that screams "I WORK AT WAL-MART"...because I don't.  I mean, I can understand how some people might assume I work at Target since I accidently wear red almost every time I go there, but seriously.  I do not have one of those "How can I help you today?" blue vests.  I don't have a name tag with a smiley face on it. 

Maybe I just look like someone who's desperately trying to claw her way out of the deepest, darkest, most depressing pit of evil imaginable ever.

...only I don't get an employee discount.