Cauliflower Power!

Hello, sea monkeys!

I'm sorry I've been away for like, the entire summer.  You see, this summer was supposed to be epic.  Turns out, it was just an epic fail.

Things were going quite well.  Then, my car decided to almost catch on fire, and my neck decided it was going to stop being a bendy thing that supports my head, and instead it was going to be a hurty thing that caused major trauma for my entire body.

This was not a great summer.

Well, because the neck issues weren't getting better (or rather, they would get better, then get worse again, then get better again, then get worse again--like the worst roller coaster ride ever), I decided I needed to drastically change my diet.

How does a diet make a difference in neck pain?

I'm glad you asked.

The answer is SCIENCE!

I SAID SCIENCE!

Well, okay, actually, the answer is inflammation.  I did some interneting, and I discovered that certain foods are either inflammatory (increasing your body's inflammatory response), or anti-inflammatory (figure out what that does on your own, brainiac.  Must I spell out everything for you?).  And I figured I'd cut out all the foods that would increase my body's inflammatory response, while adding in more foods that would decrease my body's inflammatory response.

Wow.  That was boring.  Sorry.  If you're at all interested in that anti-inflammatory diet stuff, go use the Google.  It has way more boring than I have.

Anyway, with my new diet, I cut out sugar, red meat, poultry, gluten, AND all grains (at least for now).

I call my new diet the "Oh My Gosh, I Can't Eat Anything" Diet.

OMGICEAD?
OhMagicHead?
Sounds good.  The Oh Magic Head Diet.

Well, I knew I'd eventually start missing things like eating, so I started looking into what I could do with vegetables.  I discovered some recipes for making "rice" out of cauliflower.  So I decided to try it.

Here is the Couth Ramble method of cooking the PERFECT cauliflower "rice" in 10 easy steps.  More or less.  I really didn't bother counting them, okay?  I may or may not actually be a cooking expert.

1. Wash your cauliflower and chop the big florets into little florets.  While you're doing this, think about the word "floret," and how silly it is.  Also think about how angry it makes you that cauliflower isn't spelled "collieflower."  But then think about how "caul" looks like "maul," and how the word "mauliflower" really should be in everyday English usage.

Chuck Norris doesn't eat cauliflower.  He eats MAULiflower.



...because he's angry it's not spelled "collieflower."

2. Chop the mess out of your mauliflower (I used a food processor, because I'm not She-Ra: Princess of Cooking Power) until it's in these little bitty pieces that somewhat resemble rice.

3. Decide that you are no longer making mauliflower rice.  You are now making mauliflower couscous.  Because that junk don't look like no rice you ever seen.  Consider going back to elementary school for grammar lessons.

4. Think about how much you like to say couscous.  Say it a few times to yourself, because, gosh darn it, it feels good.  Couscous.  Coooouscoooous.

5. Put some butter in a skillet.  Turn on the burner.  If you don't turn the burner on, your skillet will not get hot, and your butter will get sad and lonely.

6. Wash and cut up some mushrooms to saute in that lonely butter.  Stir it up now, nice and slow.  Wonder if you should give your mushrooms and butter some privacy.  Turn your back for a moment, and think about how much fun it is to say 'saute.'

7. When your butter and mushrooms have combined into something beautiful, go ahead and add in that mauliflower couscous.  Couscous.  Cous....cous.  Couscous.  Stir it up.

8.  Keep stirring.

9.  Keep stirring.

10. Add in a little olive oil.  Tell yourself you're only adding the olive oil for anti-inflammatory purposes.  Stir some more.  Lie to yourself some more.  You were way too good for that jerkface, anyway.  Yeah.

11.  Add some spices--like sage and cilantro--because obviously those two spices go well with everything.  And obviously I have no idea what I'm doing.

No.  Idea.

12. After you're just really tired of stirring, turn off the burner.  Put that mauliflower couscous mix into a bowl.

13. Tentatively try a spoonful.

14. Make a weird face.

15.  Immediately add enough extra spices to sufficiently cover up that you are, in fact, eating cauliflower.

16. Try it again.  Smile.

Victory is yours!

Victory tastes kinda like spices trying to mask the flavor of cauliflower.

Enjoy!

...ish.

Why I'd Make a Horrible Doctor Who Companion

If you've never seen Doctor Who, please be aware that there are some minor SPOILERS, Sweetie.  I recommend you go right now and watch all the Doctor Who you can get your hands on.  And next week when you've become converted like me, come back and read this blog.  It will make more sense to you then.

So early last year, I discovered Doctor Who by watching the "new Who" on Netflix.  That's the way most future Whovians start.  And most people have a similar first reaction:

What. in. the. world. is. this. and. why. can't. I. stop. watching...?

And then, after a few episodes about intelligent plastic/crazy mannequins, a poorly animated flat lady who demands to be moisturized, and a race of green creatures who zip up into human suits and fart all the time, something strange happens and most people actually begin to LIKE the show.  At first, you can't turn away because it's so bizarre and awful.  But by the end of the last season, you're actually sad that Christopher Eccleston went away.  Until you see David Tennant, and you lose your heart and mind to the abyss that is his awesome.  And Doctor Who becomes more than just a show--it becomes a lifestyle.  And even after Tennant left, though I'm not a huge fan of Matt Smith, Arthur Darvill as Rory kept things interesting enough to keep me hooked.  ...and I'm really looking forward to Peter Capaldi, because he's basically a blue-eyed older version of Tennant.

Yeah, at least that has been my experience.

I think that most Whovians are also the sort that secretly dream that one day a TARDIS will appear from nowhere, a handsome stranger will emerge, extend his hand and say:

Because the thing is, if we can't BE the Doctor, then we want to be the next best thing.  Which, of course, would be the Doctor's companion.

(of course, I do think I'd make a pretty fabulous Doctor...
if the Doctor would ever be female...
...and American...
...which he should never, ever, EVER be...
I digress...)

Yeah, so, since the TARDIS has never appeared in my bedroom...

A girl can dream...

...it's probably a moot point.  But I've actually given the matter a lot of thought, as in, too much thought to really be justified.  And I've come to the sad conclusion that I'd probably make a terrible companion for the Doctor.  There are several reasons for this.

1. I'd fall in love with him.

Yeah, apparently that's only okay if you're Rose Tyler.

I'm going to be jealous of you forever, Rose Tyler.  That's what I'm going to do.  

2. I'm socially awkward.

Well, this probably wouldn't be that much of a big deal.  I mean, most of the Doctor's companions have had at least a little bit of social awkwardness. 

 Yeah, a bit of social awkwardness is practically a prerequisite for being open-minded enough to travel through all and time and space.  You can't cling to things like logic and societal norms, because, well, there aren't any.  And the Doctor himself is pretty awkward, too.

So much better than Matt Smith's giraffe dance, in my humble opinion.
Seriously...I could watch this all day.  All...day...

But I happen to be a bit of a homebody.  I would rather go read a book than go to a party.  So, I have the feeling that even with all of time and space at my fingertips, I'd rather just stay on the TARDIS and take a nap than go meet aliens.

Either that or I'd get off the TARDIS to meet aliens and people from the past, and I'd start CONSTANTLY saying and doing things that would make the Doctor say:

Eventually, I wouldn't have to ask to stay on the TARDIS.  The Doctor would just be like, "Yeah...why don't you just stay here and recalibrate something. ...on second thought, no.  Just sit there.  And don't touch anything.  And don't think about touching anything.  And...never mind.  I'm taking you back to earth.  Now.

3. I'm afraid of everything.

On top of social phobias, I'm also afraid of little things like heights and open spaces and closed spaces and change and things staying the same and rap music.  Then, last year THIS happened, and now I'm afraid of staircases, too.  

Of course, there might be ways to get around staircases...

...or not...

And being afraid of things doesn't mean I don't try to do them anyway...

Eighth Doctor: You're not afraid of heights, are you?

Grace: Yeah.

Eighth Doctor: So am I.

(I know it's not the right scene.  It's better.  Shut up)

But, in the long run, I don't think that the Doctor would be patient enough to deal with someone who has as many hang-ups as I do.

4. I lack basic athletic skills.

Let's face it.  This is pretty much the gist of Doctor Who:

While I have been a runner in the past, I'm a bit out of shape right now.  And even if I were running like I used to, I'm pathetically slow.  And slow-long-distance running was about the apex of my athletic abilities.  I'm pretty much useless in any kind of dangerous situation that might involve using strength, speed, or skill.

Basically...I'd die the first time I ever left the TARDIS, and the Doctor would feel guilty.  And I don't want him to feel guilty, so it would be better for me to just stay on earth.  And away from statues.  And never ever blink.

5. I'm too silly.

You'd think that this would be a good thing.  The Doctor, himself, can be rather silly.  And a fair amount of silliness is a very good thing in a good companion.  A completely rational companion could not handle the beautiful ridiculousness of the Doctor.

...beautiful ridiculousness, indeed.  Mmm...

But my problem is that I have TOO much silliness.  The Doctor needs someone to ground him.  A little silly is exactly what he needs, but too much silly would probably cause the universe to implode or something.

But then again, it could work.  

If I were ginger...

Because, let's face it, there was a LOT of silliness going around with the Doctor and Donna.  It was magical and good.

And even with her silliness, she managed to keep him well-grounded (and the rest of the universe in check, too).

But in my current state of hair colors, I really think I am too much like the Doctor.  Just rude and not ginger.

There are sometimes, though, that I wonder.  I wonder if maybe I once was a companion.  Because if I were a companion, I'd be a lot like Donna (albeit, not ginger).  And maybe I had epic adventures with the Doctor.  And maybe I even became the most important woman in the universe.  And then maybe...maybe...

I forgot.

Now, if you will excuse me, I must go.  I have a huge case of the feels that must be dealt with.

Happy running.

The Ruth Fit

There's a word people use to describe me sometimes.  I know they mean it as a compliment, but depending on who says it, sometimes that word really insults me.  It's a word that people use when they really don't know someone, but want to say something nice about them.  And if it were true about me, I guess I wouldn't be that offended by it.  But when someone says this word about me, I know it's NOT true, and it just makes me mad that someone is saying stuff about me that's not true.  Even if it's a nice thing to say.

That word is "sweet." 

Shudder.

"Oh, Ruth, you're so sweet!"  "Ruth is such a sweet person!"  "Ruth?  Yeah, I know her.  She's sweet."  Sweet.  Sweet.  Sweet.

Blech.

Now, sometimes people who know me fairly well still use that word to describe me.  It doesn't make me mad when they say it, because somehow they still believe it about me, even though I know it's not really true.  I think it's because they're great people who can overlook all my orneriness.  

Because the people that know me best know a little secret.  It's a secret my parents referred to as: The Ruth Fit.  

I figure that the Ruth Fit is closely related to the Low Blood Sugar Monster, that sometimes rears its unsweet head when I haven't eaten enough and get crabby.  The Ruth Fit is like the Low Blood Sugar Monster, only more devious, more calculated, and more terrifying.  It doesn't happen often, but when it does, watch out.  The Ruth Fit is actually banned in seven different countries.

Or not, but I haven't visited all the countries yet, so I'm sure it's bound to be banned in a few of them.  

Yeah, so the Ruth Fit was something that originated upon my toddlerhood, when I ceased being an adorable and well-behaved infant and decided that I really was quite fed up with the fact that I couldn't have my way all the time.  I'd throw the greatest fits.  The greatest.  I'd kick my legs and scream and cry for the longest time about the simplest things.  My poor parents.  When kids at work throw fits at me today, I just laugh and say, "Honey, you have no idea who you're dealing with.  I'm a lot more stubborn than you are, and I've had loads more practice."

As I got older the Ruth Fit morphed from screaming and kicking and pouting into more grown-up pouting, not speaking to people, thinking everyone was out to get me, and writing moody poetry.  I was super popular in high school.

Well, now, as a grown up, I still have a lot of moods, but the Ruth Fit doesn't happen very often.  You'd think that would be a good thing.  But I've discovered what has happened is that since the Ruth Fit doesn't happen often anymore, when it DOES happen, it's pretty much one of the greatest forces on earth.

I will describe to you the most recent encounter that included a Ruth Fit.  It was justified, perhaps, and it got results.  But it scared people.  It even scared me.

Before I get into this story, let me first say that I work with customers at one of my jobs.  The vast majority of customers are amazing.  Then you have THAT customer.  I've dealt with THAT customer enough to know that I don't ever want to be THAT customer.  I am, for the most part, extremely patient in dealing with people, usually more apt to blame myself than someone else, and I also don't like confrontation.  So, while I was not blameless in the situation you're about to read, there was a LOT of ridiculous going on that led to the happening of the Ruth Fit.

So I was taking two of the girls I watch to one of those exercise facilities that also has a pool.  I don't want to use any names because I don't really have an issue with the facility, itself.  I don't even have a big issue with the staff.  I think some people were having off days and there was a lot of miscommunication on my part and theirs.  Too many people were trying to handle one situation, and that caused even more issues.  So I'm sure this place is a great place to go exercise and take your family.  But today was not one of the greatest moments in customer service for the staff.

The family of the girls I watch has a membership at this facility.  I should have asked the parents before embarking (they requested that I take the girls there) if I needed a guest pass.  I asked the 12 year old I watch if I needed one, and she said no.  I should have realized then that she probably really didn't know, but we were in a bit of a hurry (we had other errands before the pool).  So that's my fault, too.  But it should have been handled better.

We got to the pool and the 12 year old showed them the family ID card.  They waved us through.  We went and changed clothes in the bathrooms.  Then, as I was leaving the bathroom and walking near to where the entrance was, I almost bumped into a lady who was wearing nicer casual clothes, like she had just stepped out of CATO, with no official ids or anything.  I assumed she was just another mom or whatever.  I said, "Excuse me," for nearly bumping into her, and I walked on.  

The girls and I all got settled and started getting sunscreened up.  I made sure the girls were drenched in sunblock, and then I began the huge task of protecting myself from Mr. Golden Sun.  Now, keep in mind here that I am paler than Olaf from Frozen (the sun is just about as damaging to me, too) and I have to wear like the super greasy gross SPF 100 sunblock.  As I was lathering up my face, the lady I'd almost bumped into came over to us and sweetly said, "I noticed that you came into the pool after I did, and you didn't check in."

I said, "We checked in when we came in."

She said, "Well, you came in after me, and I noticed that you didn't check in."

I said, "We weren't checking in when we passed you.  We were coming from the bathrooms where we had changed because we already checked in."

She looked at me as if she didn't quite believe me, and then she left.  I sprayed on a second coat of the gross sunscreen.  Just to be sure.  Because being pale means you'd better be sure.

I was finishing a short argument with the 9 year old about why we had to wait for sunblock to soak in a little bit before just jumping in the water (it's not my rule, kid, it's the sunblock's rule--read the label), when the lady who had originally checked us in came up and said, "Excuse me, but I think you guys forgot to check in.  I'm going to need you to check in before you can swim."  I'm gonna call her Blondie, not because she was dumb, but because she was blonde.  I don't think she was dumb at all.  She was just trying to do her job, even though she had originally made a mistake (those happen to everyone, it's all good).  But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I looked up, and hovering over Blondie's shoulder was the CATO woman who had spoken with us the first time.  This lady who was impersonating just another patron of the pool was apparently Blondie's boss in disguise.  And I realized that she was actually a higher up employee.  I'mma call her Pool Bouncer, because that's pretty much what she was acting like.

I explained to Blondie that she had been the one to check us in.  Blondie had no memory of that and gave the understandable explanation of, "I see a lot of people come and go.  I can't remember everyone."  I work with customers.  I get that.  I don't blame her.

But frilly blouse-wearing Pool Bouncer was starting to flex her muscles.  She wasn't just hovering over Blondie.  She was hovering over me.

I asked the 12 year old to show the ID again.  They took it with them and went to scan it.  Then they came back and said, "So you're the mom?"

"No," I said.  "I'm the nanny."

  

Apparently, I wasn't supposed to be there without a fancy guest pass.  As far as I knew, I thought I was covered.  And it was a mistake on my part, but an honest one.  But the way Pool Bouncer treated me at that point, you'd think I had robbed a bank.  "You have to PAY to swim here," she said.  "The pool isn't free.  You either need to get a permanent guest pass or have a one-time-use one."  I apologized for not knowing, but pointed out, "I should have been told that when I first entered the pool."  I wasn't trying to throw Blondie under the bus.  It was just the truth of the matter.  

"You have to pay $10," Bouncer said.

Then I shrugged and said,  "Okay I'll just pay the $10." 

I followed Blondie (with Pool Bouncer right on my heels, making sure I didn't bolt) back to the entrance.  I pulled out my debit card.  Bouncer rudely said, "Oh no.  If you want to use a credit card, you have to go inside."

Oh, the Ruth Fit was beginning...

Yeah, I was getting slightly frustrated at this point.  Again, I said, "Why wasn't I told this when I first got here?"  I wasn't too keen on going into the main facility in my swim suit.  

Blondie apologized again, using the somewhat valid "I can't remember everyone," excuse.  Pool Bouncer flexed her muscles.  I said, "Whatever.  I'll just go inside and pay.  Where do I go?"

Blondie pointed in a random direction of some sort.  It was less than helpful.  

I rolled my eyes and said, "You guys do realize I've never been here before, right?"

Pool Bouncer said, "I'll take you."

"Thanks," I said, but not in any way that expressed gratitude.  I told the girls to stay put (and I'm really thankful they're older now, because if this had happened when they were little, I'd have to drag them along).  

Well, Bouncer took me to a very nice reception desk where a very nice lady was standing.  Pool Bouncer started to talk for me, but I had really had enough of her hovering.  I should have been nicer, and maybe things would have gotten resolved sooner, but I resented the fact that she seemed to think I was some sort of criminal. The Ruth Fit was accelerating.  "I've got it.  Thanks," I snapped, dismissing her.

Pool Bouncer's muscles deflated like air being let out of tires.  She backed away slowly, as though I were a grizzly bear.  I took a breath and, as calmly as possible, explained to the very nice lady at the counter that I wanted to pay to use the pool.  Communication broke down a bit then, because she started asking me about my name and address and phone number and next of kin and firstborn child and best friend in kindergarten, and I was like, "Wait, what?"

She said, "I need to register you so I can get payment from you."

Now, in retrospect, after really thinking it over like an occasionally sweet and rational person, and not someone deep in the throes of an escalating Ruth Fit, I think what she wanted to do was to add me to the family's account so that I would be a permanent guest.  All I would have to do in the future would be to enter the pool and pay.  I didn't quite understand that I needed to be on someone's account before I could use the facility, and I thought she was trying to sell me a membership.  ...but I didn't understand it because it wasn't really explained to me.  It wasn't Very Nice Lady's fault.  It was just too many people trying to help me fix a simple situation.  But I didn't get what was going on, and I was just done with the ridiculousness.  I didn't want to give them all my personal info.  I didn't want to register with them.  I wanted to pay to use their stupid pool and get on with my life.

The Ruth Fit me said, "Are. You. Kidding. Me?"

Very Nice Lady put down her ink pen slowly.  "Let me go get a supervisor."

Ruth Fit me said, "Yeah, you go do that."

I was vaguely aware of innocent bystanders gawking at me at that point as I made my scene.  I was this greasy drippy extremely pale lady in a swimsuit, and I was not happy.  In fact, I probably looked like I was ready to kill someone.  But the adrenaline was kicking in, and suddenly I didn't feel guilty anymore that I had left their nice expensive-looking counter coated in SPF 100.  Normally something like that would cause me to have a guilt trip for weeks.

Supervisor came out.  Good ol' Soups!  She'd fix everything.

Only...no.

I explained to her my situation, which, if you can tell from all that I wrote above, really was quite cray-cray.  I explained that I don't like being mean to people, and that I deal with customers all the time, too, and rarely get like this.  But I also explained that I was just really tired of being given the run around over something as simple as trying to take kids to the pool.

Did she utilize her supervisor status to get to the bottom of what was going on.  Did she try to figure out where the miscommunication was?  Did she even talk to ANY of the people that I had previously talked to in order to see why I was so frustrated?  No.

She simply smiled sweetly, and said:

"Maybe you could be a little bit nicer."

"Maybe you could be a little bit nicer."

"Maybe you could be a little bit nicer."

"Maybe you could be a little bit nicer."

"...little bit nicer...."

Say what?!

ABORT! ABORT! ABORT!

That's when the Ruth Fit reached full meltdown mode.

I think the face I gave her in response looked a little something like this:

I tried to go to the pool once.  It was awful.

So she said, "You know, you could always just leave, too."

Oh, I work with customers.  I know it's perfectly fine to THINK that, but it's NOT okay to say that unless you've got a repeat offender who has been a constant pain (or otherwise someone who just crosses the line with completely inappropriate behavior--I was not there yet).  But maybe the Ruth Fit was scarier than I realized.

So I said, "Yeah, I'm really thinking that leaving sounds like a GREAT idea."  And then I think I gave her THIS face.

Because I AM the human version of Grumpy Cat

That's when she actually took a step backwards, changed her tone completely, and said, "How about I just give you a guest pass today, free of charge?"  She looked uncertain for a moment, and added a respectful, fearful, "Ma'am."

I raised an angry eyebrow and said, "I guess that will work, too."

She didn't make eye contact with me as she filled it out and meekly told me I needed to put an emergency contact on it.  I took the guest pass back to Blondie, saying, "Do I need to leave this with you while I go look up a phone number for the emergency contact?

Blondie didn't make eye contact with me as she said, "No!  No.  We...we trust you."

Darn right you do.

Pool Bouncer sat at a desk behind Blondie's counter, still looking utterly deflated and defeated.  She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, then looked away quickly when she realized I saw her peeking.

Because that's what full-blown grown-up Ruth Fits do to people.

After all of that, while lounging in the pool, the 12 year old asked me, "So, did you have to pay the $10?"

I said, "Well, I tried to, but they gave me a hard time about that.  Then I accidentally threw a Ruth Fit, and they gave me a free pass for today."

She said, "Wow, you should do that all the time and get free stuff."

"No," I said.  "No.  Because first, I have vowed only to use my powers for good.  And second, the Ruth Fit is very powerful and should only be used with great responsibility, and in time of great need.  The Ruth Fit is more effective when it is only used sparingly, when the time is right."

The 12 year old nodded, impressed by my wisdom.  Either that or she just wanted me to stop talking.

And maybe that encounter was a time of great need, and maybe it wasn't.  But I do believe that the people at that facility will think twice before they go around willy-nilly accusing people of sneaking into the pool again.

Remember, don't make me angry.  You won't like me when I'm angry.  Unless you're watching from afar, because I bet that stuff was hilarious.

A Very Scientific Visit to the Shire

Today, I went on an adventure.  It was epic.  It happened in the Shire, where I was entrusted with the care of two hobbit children.  Only it was more like in a cul-de-sac in a neighborhood.  But still...hobbits.

Well, it's hard for me to really judge actual hobbits, since I'm pretty short myself.  But I'm really pretty sure these younglings are hobbits.  I would like you to picture what they look like (without actually showing you a picture).  Picture in your head the most adorable brown-eyed, brown curly haired five year old boy in the world.  In the world.  Now multiply that by 20.

His sister?  She has blue blue eyes and the cutest little golden ringlet curls that would make Rosie Cotton want to pull out her own hair in envy.  And I wish she would.  Try putting ribbons in THAT, Rosie Cotton, and see if Samwise Gamgee would still want to marry you.

By the way, the hobbit boy child said I could call him Sam.  So that's what I'll call him in this blog.  And the girl--okay, I guess I'll call her Rosie.  Cuz if Samwise fell in love with this little doll, I really couldn't blame him.

Anyway, this adventure to the Shire began with the building of a hobbit house.  I knew that we would be building a hobbit house, because I accidentally promised Sam a hobbit house.

Cuz if you see an adorable five-year-old hobbit boy child in the hallways at preschool, and you tell adorable five-year-old hobbit boy child, jokingly, that you want to take him home with you, and if adorable five-year-old hobbit boy child says, "OKAY! Let's go," and you find yourself having to backtrack and think of all the reasons why adorable five-year-old hobbit boy child can't come home with you, and if you tell adorable five-year-old hobbit boy child that you don't have room for him, so he'd have to sleep in the bathtub, then adorable five-year-old hobbit boy child genius might say, "Well, then build me a house so I can stay with you."  And when you look in the big brown eyes of adorable five-year-old hobbit boy child, there's little you can do besides say, "Absolutely."

And then for the next three months, adorable five-year-old hobbit boy child will remind you that you promised to build a house with him.  A hobbit house.  With a blue door and a yellow door.

We didn't build a hobbit house with a blue door and a yellow door, but we took over Sam's driveway to build a hobbit house of epic proportions.

Only, it wasn't really a hobbit house.  It was a castle.  Only it wasn't really a castle.  It was a wall to ward off the evil Dragons.  Because when you're a hobbit child, imaginary buildings can be whatever you want whenever you want.  And regarding the wall to ward off evil Dragons, Sam knew without me having to tell him that there are both evil Dragons and good Dragons.  That's because Sam is awesome.  Sam also liked using the word awesome ALMOST as much as I did.  Because he's awesome.

Well, the neighbor's kid came over and somehow the hobbit house/castle/evil Dragon prevention wall fell over.  We tried to build it again, but somehow Sam wasn't the biggest fan of being inside a fortress that simply warded off the scented bubbles his little sister was blowing.

So we went to play with playdough.  I made snails.  According to Sam, they were the most amazingly awesome epic playdough snails he'd ever seen.  I'm inclined to agree

Sam made a monster truck/race car/rocket ship/war machine.  With a horn on top.  It was also awesome and good.

Rosie made a mess.

Sam asked me how old I was.  I told him I was "this many," and held up all my fingers three times, then added a four, because that's how many I am.  He said, "TEN?"  I said, "No."  Again, I held up ALL my fingers three times, then held up four.  He said, "TWENTY-FOUR?!?"  I said, "No."  Again, I held up all of my fingers three times, then held up four.  He said, "FOURTEEN MILLION?!?"  I said, "Yes."

This is why I am not a math teacher.

I am reminded of this video, which you should watch after you finish reading this post.  And then you should watch all the other videos that Bored Shorts TV has ever made in the history of ever.  You'll thank me later.




Then Rosie, Sam ,and I went into the garage to color.  That's when SCIENCE happened.  Sam was drawing me a flower.  He wouldn't let me look at it until it was done, because, according to him, it was an awesome magical rainbow flower that was so beautiful it would make me cry.

Indeed

So I was looking away from his picture, asking Rosie to name her colors.

Just then, an evil Dragon flew over head.  And Rosie, aged three, plainly said, "What?  It's thunder!  I'm freaking out, here!"

I assured her that it wasn't thunder.  She said, "You're right.  It's a BEAUTIFUL day outside."  But she still wanted to know what was making the growly sound overhead.  She was still freaking out.

It wasn't ACTUALLY an evil Dragon.  It was actually a nice jet plane.  So I told them that it was just a plane, and if they waved really hard, the people in the airplane might see them and feel happy.  So we all waved at the sky like fools.

As if that wasn't enough SCIENCE for them, Sam asked me why the jet noise was so loud and kept going for so long.

I said, "Well, sound travels really really fast.  And when sound travels really fast, it doesn't like anything to travel faster than it.  So when the jet plane gets SO FAST that it flies FASTER THAN SOUND, sound gets REALLY angry and just shouts 'BOOM!'"

Rosie and Sam were both like, "Whoa."

This is why I am not a science teacher.

The day ended with a Dragon hunt (a good Dragon hunt--we were saving the good Dragons from the evil ones), in which Sam became a secret agent (who, of his own volition, lifted up his sunglasses and winked at me), Rosie became an elf, and I became a good ogre/spy/fairy/elf who is also a ninja.  And we went through mystical portals and caves and dungeons, until our quest ended with the great battle of Sam's Driveway.  Sam led the charge, so Rosie and I lifted our imaginary swords and ran down the hill, defeating all the evil Dragons and saving all the good ones.

Afterwards, Sam, the mighty hero, got hugs, high fives, and fist bumps from who he described to be the "two pretty princesses," and we all went in for some yogurt.

And also, we rolled up in blankets and pretended to be caterpillars.  Then we were all butterflies.  Then we were all caterpillars again, because that's how we roll in the Shire.  Literally.  ...we roll in blankets.  ...as caterpillars.  ...that's how we roll.

You know, I'm not a kid anymore.  I'm all my fingers three times plus four, but there's something amazing about getting to hang out with hobbit children.  You remember how to be a hobbit child, yourself.  I can almost guarantee that my day was more epic than yours, even if I didn't really go to the Shire.  But I kinda sorta did.

Be jealous.

Welcome to Couth Ramble, home of the Couth Ramble. Can I Take Your Order?

Greetings, fans of social awkwardness!  It's been almost a year since I last posted a socially awkward adventure (due to a lot of circumstances, including not having a computer--trying to write a blog from a special needs smart phone was just getting RIDICULOUS).  Since I've recently obtained a computer, I decided it was time to just go ahead and start fresh.  Behold!  I give you...Couth Ramble: The Blog!  Behold the shiny newness.  Now with argyle for added awesome.

So what exactly is a Couth Ramble, you ask?  Well, Couth Ramble is what happens when Socially Awkward Girl hangs up her super hero cape and just becomes a mild-mannered adventurer/writer.  She's less awkward Supergirl and more awkward Indiana Joan.  If Indiana Jones were a writer.  And a girl.  Named Joan.  

...and, yeah...if you're clever, you already figured out that Couth Ramble is also what happens when you switch some letters around and play a little bit with the name Ruth Campbell (that's-a-me!).

I don't know how much I'll be updating, but since awkward things are always happening to me (even when I'm minding my own business and attempting to behave according to societal norms), there's sure to be many, many adventures to come.  

And...I'll try to keep the adventures shorter this time.  Socially Awkward Girl was so long-winded.  I mean, you can't blame the girl...she WAS socially awkward.

Peace, Love, and Ginger Tea,

The Couth

P.S. All the old blogs are still right where I left them, if you ever wanna go back and experience the long-winded socially awkward adventures. <3

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.*