Public Service Announcement: The "A Little Bit Off" Child and You

We interrupt this socially awkward blog to bring you a public service announcement.

Warning: This might actually be a serious blog.

As a socially awkward grown-up type childcare professional (hmm, yes...that sounds marginally better than glorified babysitter), and as a formerly socially awkward child, I am able to fairly quickly pick out the kids that are just, well, "a little bit off." These are the kids that lick the playhouse and put Lincoln Logs in their noses...repeatedly. These are the kids about whom, upon first viewing their vast array of colorful bumps and bruises, you want to call child services, but then you realize they're just EXTREMELY accident prone and frequently run into inanimate objects. These are the kids who say things like, "My favorite color is power rangers" or "I eated Nemo for dinner last night" or "Mommy says I'm not allowed to put playdough in my pants anymore" or who don't say anything at all and just sit in the corner as if they're afraid the other children are out to get them. The few. The awkward. The "a little bit off" children.

(Sidenote: This is NOT one of those "lets dress all our little boys in pink" blogs. I don't have any problems with little boys who wear pink, but the purpose of this post is not to explore the possibilty of gender confusion in young childhood or how people perceive the possibility of gender confusion in young childhood or how we should be proud of the possibility of gender confusion in young childhood...etc.etc.etc. I'm just talking about kids who are "a little bit off" as I once was...and still am.)

Let's face it, the "a little bit off kids" usually KNOW that they're "a little bit off." They might be right at the threshhold of being "a LOT off," but as long as they are aware enough to know that they're "a little bit off," then they aren't yet "a LOT off." ...if you could follow any of that.

I remember being one of THOSE kids. Autism is in my family (my younger brother was diagnosed with high-functioning autism), and I'm pretty sure I got some of the "a little bit off" genes, too. I remember trying to play with other kids, but they all seemed to be talking in some kind of "code" I didn't understand. I could almost get it, but not enough to be like them. They knew I was weird. The vast majority of them were mean to me. That's just how it was.

And I see the socially awkward kids now, and I observe how other kids treat them. More than that, though, I see the way grown-ups treat them. Sometimes, it makes me really mad. Now, most of what grown-ups do and say is well-intended. I think the main problem I have is when an adult who is not all that socially awkward is trying to cope with their own socially awkward child. They just can't understand because they've probably never been there.

I have NO problem with parents trying to teach their children good manners and encouraging socialization. We all need to learn how to get along with one another, and childhood is the best time for that. But it really bothers me when parents try to FORCE socialization. Honestly, it doesn't bother me when I say "hi" to a kid and they proceed to hide behind their mom's knee instead of replying. It doesn't bother me when a kid refuses to join in with the other kids and instead opts to sit in the corner and read a book or hop on his foot until he falls over (repeatedly) for no apparent reason. It does bother me when parents or other childcare workers try to make "a little bit off" kids act like all the other kids. They aren't like all the other kids. And, personally, I am glad they're not.

Sure, it's a pain to sanitize the playhouse every five minutes because little Timmy won't stop licking it. It's rough to have to explain to little Sally (for the thirtieth time) that I don't want to have to call her mom because she has a Lincoln Log stuck in her nose. It's vicariously embarassing to watch little Angie trip over her own feet AGAIN. It's especially hard to see these wonderful little people get picked on by the other children. It's even harder to see them get picked on by their own parents.

I was them once. I don't remember everything from my childhood, but I remember a few things. I remember the grown-ups that looked down on me. I remember the ones who were constantly frustrated with me because my mind just didn't work the way other kids' minds worked. But, I also remember the grown-ups who smiled and/or laughed with glee whenever I said something completely ridiculous. I remember the teachers who encouraged my overactive imagination. I remember the camp counselors and youth workers at church who just seemed to understand that I didn't really get much out of the games the other kids were playing. I remember the ways some grown-ups just seemed to "get me," who didn't deny my "a little bit offness," but they were also not ashamed. They celebrated my "a little bit offness."

One of the things I kind of like about the fact that I'm so socially awkward is that it tends to make me a more compassionate person. Kids were often mean to me, so I know what it's like to be mistreated/bullied/shunned, etc. I have a feeling that the grown-ups who encouraged me in my "a little bit off" childhood were probably once children who were "a little bit off" themselves. They grew up to be compassionate, encouraging adults. And I have a feeling that it's my turn to be that compassionate, encouraging adult now.

Seriously, my *coughfavoritecough* kids are usually the ones that are just "a little bit off." Sometimes these kids are the most challenging kids to work with because sometimes they just don't "get it" enough to know how to behave. Their own little world is too important to them to try to adhere to the rules we set for them, even if those rules are for their own well-being (almost all rules are). So it takes a lot of work and repetition and PATIENCE and LOVE, but these wonderful kids are SO worth it. I'm grateful for the opportunity to get to spend time with them, even if they're driving me batty (it doesn't take much to drive me batty, btw--I'm already "a little bit off").

See, I have this theory that the oddest children are going to be the ones who will to grow up and do the most amazing things. And it hurts me when well-meaning grown-ups try to stifle that. So if you have a "little bit off" child in your life, I encourage you to encourage them to just be themselves. I'm not saying you should let them lick the playhouse or put Lincoln Logs in their noses. I'm not even saying you shouldn't correct them when they forget their manners. I'm just saying that a little bit of compassion and patience goes a long way.

Because maybe someday that "little bit off" child is going to grow up to be a writer or a rocket scientist or a teacher who will change the world in some small or huge way--and maybe in the meantime they're just really great kids who are a heck of a lot of fun to be around if we stop trying to change them.

I'm grateful for the many parents I know that do "get" their children. I think the number of parents who "get" their children vastly outnumbers the number of parents who don't "get" their children. I just think it's a good reminder for all of us.

We now return to our normally scheduled socially awkward blog, which is already in progress.

Socially Awkward Girl: THE VIDEO ADVENTURES

A year or so ago, I toyed with the idea of doing a Socially Awkward Girl video series, but due to the fact that I have a ridiculously old digital camera that only takes 1 minute vidoes and since I have no recording skills, this is all I ever made. Quite honestly, if you consider the oldness and patheticness of the recording technology I have at my disposal, this video is freakin' brilliant. And yes, I did write and perform the theme song all by myself because I rock, thank you very much.

So for your awkward enjoyment, an exceedingly awkward video of Socially Awkward Girl and her awkwardly epic battle against the box of Swiss Cake Rolls.

Just Sayin' Episode #3: The More the Awkwarder

I have recently learned that a socially awkward person will become MUCH more socially awkward in the presence of a person who is even the slightlest bit more socially awkward than he/she already is.

Just sayin'.

SAA Ep. #8: Customer Service Representatives are Standing By

I don't like making phone calls to people I don't know about "grown up stuff." I've heard people talk about their negative views of the future: "One day, everything a human can do will be done by a machine!" I don't think that's a plesant thing, either, but I must say that when it comes to telephones, I'd RATHER talk to a machine than to a human. I'd rather deal with all the "Enter your account #. You entered blahblahblah. Press one if this is correct. Press two if this is INcorrect" nonsense before talking to an actual human being. I'm not really sure why. I haven't recently had any huge unpleasantness with the person on the other end of the phone. They're usually very helpful and can solve my problem more quickly than the automated "press 1 if correct" silliness.

BUT...I just don't like talking to them. My social awkwardness/anxiety kicks in full gear just THINKING about calling an unknown person on the phone. I even have issues calling to order pizza. It's pretty much ridiculous, but I don't know how to make it stop.

A few weeks ago, I was trying to pay one of my bills online. It's one of those great places where you type in your username/password, you click two buttons, and you're done. No 3 gazbillion security questions. So I typed in my username. I typed in my password. It didn't accept my password. No big deal. I have about half a dozen passwords I use for different things. I typed in another password. Didn't take that either. Still no big deal. I tried a variation on another password. Didn't take that. The little voice in the back of my head that I really should listen to more often said, "Ruth, just click "I forgot my password" and let them email it to you." I said, "No little voice in the back of my head that I really should listen to more often, NO! I will not be defeated by my poor memorization skills! I will remember this password!" So I tried another password. No access. Again, the little voice in the back of my head that I really should listen to more often said, "Um, Ruth, I think you really should just ask them to send you your password." But no! It had become a game. I was competing against myself, trying to guess the password I had used. I kept typing passwords and variations of passwords.

And then it happened, as the little voice in the back of my head that I really should listen to more often had tried to warn me. Up pops the security screen. "You have exceeded the number of login attempts and your account has been frozen. Please call 1800-SERIOUSLYYOUCANTREMEMBERYOUROWNPASSWORDJERKFACE? in order to speak to one of our Customer Service Representatives."

I broke out in a cold sweat. Few things terrify me more than the words "Customer Service Representative." I turned off my computer and doused it in holy water. Ok, so I didn't. But only because it was my roommate's computer...and I didn't happen to have any holy water handy.

The little voice in the back of my head that I really should listen to more often said, "Ruth, you need to call so you can pay your bill." I knew the little voice in the back of my head that I really should listen to more often was absolutely right, but so great was my fear that I knew I would wait until the last possible moment. For the next few weeks, the reality of having to eventually call the Customer Service Representative hung over me like a death sentence. I know I should have just made the call and gotten it over with, but apparently I am a pansy.

My bill was due today. I had the morning off. I spent my time getting up, praying to be spared from the torture of having to make the phone call. I watched some tv, did some knitting. I even cleaned out the dishwasher to avoid making that call. But eventually the little voice in the back of my head that I really should listen to more often finally won out.

I dialed the number, and was relieved to hear an automatic voice. Maybe I was saved. Maybe I could just do this account unfreezing thing automatically. Automatic man listed off my options: "Press 1 if your service has been disconnected. Press 2 if you have inquiries about your bill or if you would like to make an automated payment. Press 3 if you enjoy long walks on the beach, pina coladas, and polka music." Automatic man needs to get out more. I pressed 2.

Automatic man continued. "Please enter your account number."

D'OH. I don't have my account number. Access to my account number is neatly frozen up in my frozen account. Then Automatic Man said: "Press 0 at any time to speak to one of our Customer Service Representatives."

I nearly hung up. Okay. So I did hang up. After all, I didn't NEED to pay that bill. What if they disconnected my service? I don't need all my utilities, do I?

Yeah.

I had to give myself a pep talk before I could call again. This time, I ignored Automatic Man's suggestion that I press "dos para espanol," and with fear and trembling, I pressed the dreaded 0 key.

After Automatic Man advised me that my call might be recorded for the purpose of giving all the employees of the company something to laugh at during their Christmas party, I was put through to a nice lady named Victoria. Now, my mom's name is Victoria. It's a nice name, but at the time, all I could think of was Twilight Victoria. She was going to come through the phone and drink my blood. I just knew it.

Instead, she asked me some security questions. I stuttered through them. I gave her the wrong phone number. I couldn't spell my own email address. She didn't seem fazed by this. Apparently I'm not the only socially awkward caller they get around there. She unfroze my account and sent me my shiny new password so I could continue using the happy Customer Service Representative free online bill payment. The whole process was over in about 2 minutes. She was very pleasant and helpful, and I had suffered weeks of anxiety for nothing. But the call wasn't quite over yet...

As the conversation ended, she said, "Thank you for calling."

"You too," I said cheerfully.

I think I heard her laugh at me right before I hung up the phone.

Embarablast From the Past Episode #4: The Rejection

So usually my embarablasts are about things that I've done to embarass myself. Today's episode is about someone else's embarassment. Well, actually, I can't say whether the other individual was embarassed or not, but he should have been. In fact, he should have been downright ashamed.

Let me start out by saying that I'm pretty slow when it comes to guys "hitting on" me. Blame it on the fact that I was wearing coke bottle glasses from the age of six all the way up into my teenage years, or it could have been that even in childhood my hair was known to be unruly enough to eat small children (poor Timmy), or that I liked Star Trek instead of Beverly Hills 90210. Until I got contacts and learned the mystical secrets of hair gel (never did stop watching Star Trek--I'm awesome!), I was pretty much shunned by all members of the male species.

I had no concept of what it was like to be "hit on." In fact, even in college, one of my guy friends eventually had to clue me into the fact that someone was expressing interest in me. It wasn't someone I was interested in, so it didn't really matter. I just thought it was interesting that I was that oblivious. I just have little experience with getting "hit on," and it takes something BIG for me to "get it."

So a couple of years ago, the little girl I nannied for was still in preschool. I had to go pick her up in the afternoons. The preschool teacher was the sort who would keep her door closed and not open it until she was ready to let the kids out. So all the parents (and the socially awkward nanny) would stand outside the door waiting for the class to end.

I'd developed a routine of arriving a few minutes before the class was over. Some of the parents would stand around in the hallway and chat. Others, like me, were antisocial. We'd stand around staring at the random kid art on the walls. I must have looked at that same piece of macaroni art 200 times. I'm still not sure what it was supposed to be...

But for those of us who did not want to talk, we'd established an unspoken rule that we would continue not to speak to each other. We would not make eye contact. We would stay three to five feet away from each other's personal bubbles. That was the way things were.

Then came the day when I met Lack of Personal Boundaries Man. He came into the preschool hallway unobtrusively. In fact, I didn't even notice LoPB Man until I got the vibe that he was "checking me out." As I noted before, I'm really pretty oblivious to guys paying attention to me, so it had to be fairly overt for me to pick up on it.

Still, I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, so I continued to stare at the macaroni art. It was then that LoPB Man proceeded to enter my personal bubble. He took one of those awkward side steps towards me and pretended to look at the macaroni art, as well.

According to the Unwritten Rules of Socially Awkward Ettiquette, when a person gets too close to my personal bubble, the correct procedure is to casually take a step away from the offender. I did this. I stepped casually away from LoPB Man and turned my attention to a kid drawing that looked like one of those aliens from Close Encounters of the Third Kind. I think it was supposed to be a cat.

Almost as soon as I had moved away from LoPB Man, LoPB Man decided to follow my lead. He stepped closer. I thought this must have been some kind of coincidence. LoPB Man was not following me. He just had a burning curiosity about cats that look like aliens. So, I decided I needed to take ANOTHER casual step away.

LoPB Man followed again.

I considered taking another causual step away, but I feared it would lead to a bizarre "casual step dance" around the preschool hallway. I'm a bad dancer. It would not have been pretty.

So I stood my ground, focusing my attention on a flyer that had been taped to the wall. I can't tell you what it said, because I wasn't really reading it. I was looking out of the corner of my eye towards LoPB Man. He was still standing way too close to me.

Then, inevitably, LoPB Man tapped me on the shoulder. I forced a smile and looked at him. "Excuse me," he said nervously. "I can't seem to remember the names of the preschool teachers in this class. Do you know what they are?"

I have a couple of reasons to believe that he was just trying to make conversation with me. He was making bad, incredibly awkward conversation, but it was conversation nonetheless. The first reason I believe he just wanted to talk to me was that there were SEVERAL other people standing around in that hallway he could have asked, if indeed he was actually trying to find out the names of the preschool teachers.

But the other reason I believe he was just trying to talk to me was because in BIG bold "Helen Keller could see them blindfolded" letters on the preschool door were the words, "Welcome to Miss Sue and Miss Jane's 4 Yr. Old Class."

"Their names are on the door," I pointed out. "Miss Sue and Miss Jane." I used a tone that indicated I really didn't want to talk to him...because I really DIDN'T want to talk to him.

"Oh," he said. "Sorry." He didn't look/sound embarassed. He looked/sounded dejected. He looked/sounded as though I'd just shot him down. And it had to be pretty clear for me to pick up on it, because I usually just don't get it when guys are interested.

Anyway, about that time, the door to the classroom opened and a little girl ran into LoPB Man's arms exclaiming, "DADDY!" And I just happened to look down at that point and notice that LoPB Man AKA DADDY! was definitely wearing a wedding band.

It amazes me that people like this can find other people who are willing to breed with them. He must have attracted MOMMY! with his wily awkward casual step dances and witty remarks. Hmm.

Note to potential suitors: If you DON'T want me to reject you, here's some helpful hints:

1. Don't follow me around hallways.
2. Come up with better pick up lines than "Can you tell me the names of my kid's preschool teachers?" or other things that make you sound like a lame parent/complete moron.
3. Don't be married.
4. Make sure I understand that you're actually interested, because chances are, I won't get it.
5. Be Scottish. It's not a requirement, but it definitely wouldn't hurt.

Just Sayin' Ep. 2: You Look Tired

People tell me that I look tired a lot.

I could actually be tired, or I could be wide awake and jumping through the peonies--not that I do that often. It doesn't seem to matter. I just have random people tell me "You look tired" all the time, no matter how I'm feeling. Yeah. Apparently, that's just how I look.

In case you didn't know, it's not a nice thing to tell someone, even if it's true. Your commenting on someone's look of tiredness isn't going to miraculously make them not look tired. You should keep that kind of comment to yourself. Basic manners, 101. I'm socially awkward, and even I know that.

Just sayin'

SAA Ep. #7: The Thrift Store (NOW WITH PICTURES)

I had an unpleasant realization today.

I also embarked on a quest--well, it was actually a few quests rolled into one. The main quest was for a brown winter jacket. My old winter jacket is actually more of a fall weight jacket, and it is also quite threadbare. Not only that, but it's kind of ginormous on me now. Earlier this year, I lost 40 pounds. Don't congratulate me yet. I've gained five of those pounds back and I could still stand to lose 15-20 pounds. Also, right before I posted this, I proceeded to eat almost an entire bag of Turtle Chex Mix. Yeah...New Year's Resolutions are right around the corner... Unfortunately before I round that corner, I'll probably round my middle a little more with Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Anyway, so I went to the mall, hoping to find a decently priced jacket. "Decently priced" is a relative term, so keep in mind that I work with kids. In fact, just forget I said "decently priced" and pretend I said "cheap," because that's what I meant.

The mall is not typically a cheap place. I meandered around a few stores, carefully avoiding the sales clerks before they could ask me "Can I help you find something?" I always get the feeling those people are really asking me something else, like, "Did you look in the mirror before you left your house this morning?" or "Have you ever been inside an actual department store, sweetheart?" or "What can I prevent you from shoplifting today?"

And stores at the malls--particularly clothing stores--just freak me out. I walked into one and realized it was WAY too classy for me. So I made a lap around one of the mannequins and immediately exited the store. Even the mannequins in those places seem condescending. I could feel their soulless eyes staring at me, daring me to deem myself awesome enough to enter their store. But then, I hate mannequins. Did anyone see that Olivia Newton John Christmas movie where she was a mannequin that came to life and became this kid's mom? Weird. Way to spread Christmas cheer--creepy mannequins that wanna get physical, physical...

Anyway, I found nothing "cheap" enough for my budget. So--I went to the thrift store. And here is where I had my unpleasant realization. I was standing amongst the aisles of grandma clothes (they looked like grandma clothes AND smelled like grandma clothes), hoping to find something that was made in this century. I overheard this lady talking to no one. And I thought to myself, "This is a crazy person. I'm listening to a legitimately crazy person. This is where crazy people shop for clothes." That was NOT my unpleasant realization.

I'll get to the unpleasant realization in a moment. First, I want to take this opportunity to comment on the difference between the extremely poor and the extremely rich. The extremely poor are often crazy people who walk around talking to themselves. The extremely rich are often people who buy expensive gadgets like invisible blue tooth headsets that enable them to walk around and look exactly like they're talking to themselves. Hmm.

Back to the unpleasant realization.

See, I have known for a long time that crazy people shop at the thrift stores. There are people who come to the thrift store every day just to stand amongst the antiquated clothing just so they can have conversations with themselves in public. They might even get paid for it--their presence provides such rich and entertaining atmosphere to my bargain bin shopping experience.

I know there are crazy people in thrift stores. What I didn't realize is that I'm FAR more comfortable shopping where the crazy people shop than I am shopping at the mall.

To make matters worse, I did not find a jacket, even among the crazy people. However, I did find several nice sweaters. I also found a canister that matches my old discontinued Corelle pattern (Blue Hearts. I found out it was made exclusively for Walmart--go figure. Blue Hearts: The Official Corelle Pattern of People Who Shop Where Crazy People Shop!!).

This is not the actual container. This is a similar container I also got at a thrift store.

The actual container is now soaking in bleach & awaiting a couple trips thru the dishwasher.

The canister rattled a little (it wasn't broken), and the lid was taped down, so I couldn't see what was inside it. I mean, I could have taken off the tape, but that would have ruined the surprise. I mean, it was like a thrift store happy meal with a surprise inside. What could it be? Another smaller canister? An extra lid? A dead rat? A live rat? A human tooth? The possibilities were practically endless!!

I brought it home and opened it up. What was inside? I'm still not sure. Maybe you can tell me.

I think I might have preferred a human tooth.

Embarassing Confession #2: I am a Sucker

It's true. I'm a sucker. I am the sort of person who cannot walk by the Salvation Army bell ringers without either putting something in their little bucket, or feeling incredibly guilty for pretty much the rest of all eternity. It's not so much that I'm generous as much as it is that I'm stupid.

The other day a stranger came up to me and said, "Do you have a couple dollars I could use to get air in my tires? I'm completely broke and can't get my bike home." I was like, "Sure, here you go." Dude proceeded to walk away, pick up his bike, and ride away. I am a sucker.

And I've learned that non-suckers are born with an innate knowledge of how to work suckers. I've noticed that whenever they have people selling stuff outside of Wally World on the weekends, they always get the cutest, sweetest child with the widest eyes in the world to be the ones to ask for money. "Miss, could you please donate your hard-earned money to our stuffed puppy club?" I know that a stuffed puppy club is not a worthy cause, but when I look into those eyes, my hand reaches for my wallet against my volition.

Maybe you can relate...

You see, there is some hope for the suckers of this world. There are ways of avoid um, suckerage. Getting suckerized? Whatever you call it, here are some useful tips:

1. Recognize the signs. People who ask for money usually stand in doorways or other heavily trafficked areas where they can more conveniently suckerize suckers. They often hold jars or other containers used to hold their money. Often these jars are decorated with eye catching cutesy labels that are cleverly designed to make suckers feel guilty. Another clue is if you actually witness another poor sucker giving them money. If you see any of these signs, try to avoid the suckerizer if at all possible.

2. DO NOT make eye-contact. If you see someone who appears to be asking other people for money, ESPECIALLY if the money asker is a cute wide-eyed child, do not, I repeat DO NOT make eye-contact. Suckerizers know that if they make eye-contact with a sucker, they have already won the battle. Pick something like a cloud in the sky or a freckle on your arm to stare at so that you will not have to make eye-contact.

3. Walk in large groups of people. If you are the only one there, then wide-eyed suckerizing child WILL suckerize you. They will make it impossible for you ignore them with their precious wide-eyedness. They will pull you away from the cloud or freckle and by the sheer power of their awesome adorableness will FORCE you to make eye-contact with them. As you know from reading the previous tip, after you have made eye-contact, all hope is lost. You have been suckerized. If you walk in large groups of people, there is less chance that the suckerizer will focus their mad skills of suckerization on you. If there is no large group of people, just wait a few minutes. Large groups of people seem to be everywhere (as every socially awkward person can tell you), so if there isn't a large group of people readily available, one will probably be arriving shortly.

4. Pretend to talk on your cell phone. Okay, so this trick is EXTREMELY juvenille and practically ANY suckerizer can see through it in a heartbeat, BUT it seems to work in 99.9% of potentially dangerous situations. When walking by wide-eyed suckerizers, just lift your cell phone to your ear and pretend to carry on a conversation. For added protection, you might want to loudly tell the pretend person you're pretending to talk to that you are very broke and hate wide-eyed children who try to collect hard-earned money in cutely decorated jars.

5. Just don't carry cash. This doesn't exactly kill the guilt factor in me, but at least it keeps me from getting suckerized. If you don't have cash to give, you cannot give cash away. Debit cards are incredible inventions. Of course, this is only going to be useful until the time when the suckerizers wise up and start carrying portable debit card scanners. It's only a matter of time.

If you're a sucker, hopefully these helpful tips will be...helpful.

SAA Ep. #6: OFF DA HOOK!!!

Sometimes, one of the greatest adventures a socially awkward person can have is to vicariously experience someone else's socially awkward adventure. Today, this happened to me. It was wonderful.

I went to the library, which is usually a pretty low-key adventure. This has not always been the case. Depending on the size and unfamiliarity of the library, I can have TONS of socially awkward and even socially frightening experiences in a library. Those librarians are terrifying. My local library, however, is small and fairly non-scary. Plus, thanks to the wonders of technology, I can have a full library-going experience without ever having to speak to an actual human being. I can reserve the books I want online, then they give me an automated call to let me know the books are ready. I go in, pick them up, use self-check out...badda bing badda boom, I have my books without having to socially interact with anyone. Plus, I get to hear the uber non-soothing sounds of the book checking out machine "SCAN YOUR CARD" BEEP! "PLEASE WAIT" "SCAN FIRST BOOK" BEEP! "PLEASE WAIT" "SCAN NEXT BOOK OR PRESS FINISHED, IF DONE" BEEP "PLEASE WAIT" ahh. It's like a heavenly choir of obnoxious robotic music.

Anyway, today I went in and picked up some books that I'd reserved. I actually had to speak to the lady at the desk because I had a 20 cent fine because their computers said I had turned in a book two days late, when I had actually turned it in two days early. *Shrug* Whatev. After talking to the nice non-scary librarian lady, who didn't even ask me the obvious question "Why in the name of King Arthur are you checking out eight reference books about knights and chivalry?" I almost offered her an answer anyway, but I figured she didn't care. The answer, of course, to "Why in the name of King Arthur am I checking out eight reference books about knights and chivalry?" is "Because I am writing a book."

"Because I'm writing a book" is the answer to about 83.4% of the questions I get asked these days.

"Why are you making a list of potential names for horses?"
--Because I'm writing a book.
"Are you getting enough sleep? Why are you so cranky?"
--Because I'm writing a book.
"Why did you just maliciously giggle for no apparent reason?"
--Because I'm writing a book.
"What's your name?"
--Because I'm writing a book.

You get the idea.

Anyway, after checking out my books and proceeding to leave the library, I came across an interesting scene in the library foyer. All right, so "foyer" is a generous term in this case. My local library is small. Between the outer doors and the actual library is a really small area about ten feet long and four feet wide that contains some free reading material and such. As I walked through the door, I noticed it also contained a trash can and two elderly ladies who were leaning over said trash can, listening. I could hear what they heard. It was a high pitched BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP.

One of the ladies looked at me seriously. "We think there may be a bomb in the trash can."

I leaned closer to the trash can. "It doesn't sound like a bomb," I said (because I'm obviously an expert on what bombs sound like). "It sounds like a telephone is off the hook."

The two ladies exchanged looks of utter horror. "Oh no!" one of the ladies said. "Someone has accidently thrown away their cellular phone!" Seriously, they both seemed more upset about the idea that someone had lost their phone than the idea of someone putting a bomb in the trashcan of a small local library.

I leaned closer to the trashcan. "I don't think the sound is coming from the trash can," I said. I looked up, and on the wall was a telephone. I walked up to the phone. With one finger, I pressed the phone back to the receiver, from which it had become slightly dislodged. The beeping abruptly stopped.

One of the ladies exclaimed to the other, "Well, I've never seen a telephone do that before, have you?"

"I've never even had a telephone," the other lady replied.

Yeah.

I took my books and returned to my car, grateful for the adventure I'd just had. It's not every day I get to rescue two old ladies from a bomb...or a telephone.

I'm Socially Awkward Girl: Saving the world, one socially awkward adventure at a time!

Embarablast From the Past Episode #3: Vampires Don't Give Blood

Before I say anything else, let me inform readers of the fact that I am about as pale as a human being can get without being an albino. We're talkin' Edward Cullen would KILL (hopefully not literally) for my fair complexion (I even sparkle when I wear body glitter--or don't shave my legs). If you connected all my freckles with a brown magic marker (which, by the way, are not all that magical when you really think about it--false advertisement???), I might actually look like I have a tan of some sort. But my freckles aren't connected; consequently, I look like Casper the Ghost's big sister.

My nickname in middle school was actually "Casper legs." And people wonder why I'm socially awkward...

So about ten years ago or so, I went to a blood drive. I don't particularly LIKE giving blood or anything, but it seems like a nice thing to do since I seem to react pretty well to the blood donor process. I've never passed out or gotten dizzy or anything. I don't have any iron deficiencies. I mean, it kind of sucks (literally and figuratively) when they jab that needle in your arm (all the while telling you that it won't hurt a bit--which isn't entirely or really at all true), but at least you get free Swiss Cake Rolls at the end. All in all, it's not the worst way to spend a half hour.

Only this particular blood drive lasted longer than half an hour. I was in college, living with my parents and commuting two blocks to school--kind of convenient. The blood drive was near the campus, so I figured I could go to class, give blood, and come home. Only there was this ridiculously long line. I waited. I waited some more. When I was the very next person in line, my dad showed up and said, "Um, we're kind of waiting dinner on you, so if you could just hurry home as soon as you get done, that would be great!" I said they could start without me (knowing they wouldn't), because honestly, I was in this whole, "Gee can ya'll stop acting like I'm a member of the family now? I'm a college student!" Now that I'm living on my own, I'd really like someone else to cook for me, but yeah--hindsight is 20-20 and other various cliches.

So I finally get what I've waited over an hour for--that two foot long needle jabbed in my arm by someone who has only had about ten minutes experience finding arteries. I survived the giving of blood. I got a free tshirt or something cool like that. I don't really remember.

What I do remember was sitting down in front of a Sweet Gray Haired Volunteer Lady who handed me that Swiss Cake Roll I'd been waiting for. I ate it hurriedly so I could continue on home to eat dinner with my (as I thought at the time) lame parents. I got up to leave when the Sweet Gray Haired Volunteer Lady (or SGHVL--pronounced "Si-hiv-ul"--the G is totally silent) reached out and grabbed my arm with far more force than believable or necessary.

She looked at me with deathly serious eyes. "You can't leave yet."

It was like an episode of the Twilight Zone. Was she some kind of SGHVL vampire in disguise? Had she lured me there with Swiss Cake Rolls so that she could feast on some of my A positive juice?

"Excuse me?" I asked innocently, because honestly, I had no clue what SGHVL's problem was.

"You can't leave yet," she repeated. "You need to eat something."

"Oh," I said, wondering if SGHVL was suffering from dimentia and had already forgotten that I had JUST scarfed down a Swiss Cake Roll. "I ate enough. I'm good to go."

"No," SGHVL said, increasing the pressure of her grasp. I think it hurt worse than the needle they used to siphon my blood. "You don't look well. You need to eat something else. Sit down and eat."

"I feel fine," I protested, wondering if I had suddenly just broken out in hives or something. "I've given blood a few times before, and I've always been fine afterwards. I don't feel dizzy or anything."

"You don't look well," she repeated. "Eat something."

"I have somewhere I'm supposed to be," I said. "I really need to get going, so if you'll be a nice SGHVL and let go of my arm...."

"You're too pale," she said.

Then I understood. Of course! She didn't understand that I had a severe lack of melanin. I laughed. "Oh, I'm fine. I'm ALWAYS this pale."

She shook her head. "No, dear. No one could POSSIBLY be that pale and still be healthy. You are going to rest here and eat some more until your color returns."

"If we're going to wait until my color returns, we're going to be waiting a while. I never HAD any color."

I kept arguing, but SGHVL would not believe me. She was adamant to keep me there until either my color or Jesus returned.

So I sat down and asked for another Swiss Cake Roll. SGHVL smiled with satsifaction, released my arm, and leaned down to get me another prepackaged chocolate coated sugar rush. As soon as she wasn't looking, I bolted for the door.

It took her a few seconds to realize what was happening. She chased me, but luckily for me, I was 20 and she was probably close to 80. Plus, I had a head start. As I escaped into the parking lot in all of my pale non-dizzy glory, I could hear SGHVL's shrill voice calling out to me in the night, "COME BACK! COME BAAAAAACK!!!"

For all I know, SGHVL could be sitting in a nursing home muttering to herself about the "Pale One Who Got Away."

POWGA!

Pronounced "Powa!" The G is still totally silent.