SAA Ep. #39: Crossing the Street

I don't like crossing the street.

I don't live in a big city.  I don't know what I would do if I lived in a big city.  I'd probably sit in a dark corner and cry a lot.  ...and not just because I don't like crossing the street, but honestly, that has a lot to do with it.

When I go out jogging, I see a lot of people run up one side of the street, cross, and run down the other side of the street.  I don't do that.  When I reach the end of the sidewalk, I turn on my heel and run back down the same stretch of sidewalk.  Why?  Because I don't like that awkward moment of waiting to see what all the cars are going to do.  Are they going to stop for me or pretend they don't see me and speed on by?  Should I just bolt out in front of them, hoping they have good driving manners and/or brakes?  Should I hesitate and jog in place while waiting for them to make up their mind about whether or not they're going to stop?  What if there are two (or three) cars coming from separate directions?  What if one of them wants to stop and let me pass, but the others don't?  That means that one driver will have to wait for no reason and will have wasted a few seconds of his life, and all because he was trying to be nice to me.

I can't live with that kind of guilt.

So I don't cross the street unless I absolutely have to.

There's one particular intersection in the small town where I live that I avoid like the plague.  I'm not a big pedestrian, but it just so happens that my mechanic is right there near that intersection.  I sometimes leave my car there and walk up the street to a coffee shop to wait.   That often means I have to cross the street. 

Now, this intersection has those "WALK/DON'T WALK" lights, but I'm pretty sure they're only there to impress the tourists.  I've tried using them, but they don't seem to work.  When I use them, I almost always almost die while drivers honk their horns and scream obscenities at me (because apparently they have never heard that pedestrians have the right of way).  While I do always *try* pushing the button to see if it will help me out, I've found that a much better method of crossing this particular intersection is simply to look in every direction at the same time, wait until it seems that there are no cars coming from any direction (this sometimes can take several minutes), and then run like fire across the intersection, all the while praying that the traffic gods will be merciful. 

I hate, I repeat, HATE crossing the street. 

And from what I've seen, other people hate it, too.  I spend more time as a driver than as a pedestrian.  I frequent that same intersection as a driver.  Do you know what I see?  I see people standing at the crosswalk light, pressing the button.  Then they look in every direction at the same time.  Then they run like fire across the intersection. 

All except the newbies. 

The street crossing newbies are far more hesitant.  They follow the instructions of the deceptive "WALK" lights that inform them they have 12 seconds to safely cross.  Then they realize that a mud-covered pick-up truck with a ginormous Confederate Flag plastered on the back window is taking that unforeseen left turn pretty fast--too fast to avoid hitting them.  So they hesitate.  They turn back and retreat for the sidewalk, just in time to hear the obscenities fly and the horn beep out "Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton...."

Good times.

Yeah.  So maybe it makes me a three-year-old, but I don't like crossing the street by myself.  But then again, being a three-year-old has it's perks.  Does this mean I can have nap time again?

SAA Ep. #38: What Century is This, Anyway?

One of the questions I like to ask little kids a lot is, "Can I be YOU when I grow up?"  They all kind of look at me like, "Um...?" and then say something cute like, "NOOOO!  Your name isn't the same as mine!" or "NOOOO! You're a girl, and I'm a boy!" or "NOOOO! You're already a grown up, and I'm just a little kid." or "SURE!  We can both be ME!"

The thing is, I don't want to be any of these kids when I grow up (and yes, I do realize that I'm 31 years old--it matters not).  I know what I want to be when I grow up.  I know exactly what I want to be when I grow up. 

When I grow up, I want to be a Medieval Princess.

I mean, when I first start thinking about it, it all sounds awesome.  I would get to wear those awesome dresses with the flowy sleeves, and my pale skin and my untamed poofy-curly hair would be the envy of all of those peasants with natural tans and bone straight hair.  I'd get to hang out with knights and/or Dragons all day--even if the Dragons wanted to eat me, that'd still be pretty cool--because I'd still be hangin' with the Dragons.  Incidentally, if I have a choice in the matter, let the record show that if I can't die painlessly in my sleep, I'd like to be burned and/or eaten by a Dragon.  If I have to die painfully, I'd rather my death be really stinkin' awesome.  And what's a more awesome death than being devoured by a fire-breathing Dragon?  Nothing.  That's what.

But I really start thinking about the whole Medieval Princess thing, and then the voice of reason kicks in.  And I realize that if I were a Medieval Princess, I probably wouldn't be literate.  And that's kind of a deal breaker with me.  I've gotta be able to read and write.  I also would very much appreciate having some freedom.  I'm no feminist, but I kind of like having some basic rights, you know.  In Medieval times, I probably wouldn't have any say in a lot of matters in my life because, princess or not, I'd just be a woman.  And women back then were only good for one thing (or so the mutton-eatin', mead drinkin' men thought).  Women were only good for birthin' the babies.  And I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' no babies.

I have shared my thoughts on childbirth before, but I don't know if I've ever just spilled them out here in this lovely blog.  See, I love kids.  If I ever get married one day, I'd love to adopt.  I'm just not too keen on the whole getting pregnant/giving birth thing.  I mean, it's cool to see pregnant women being all cute and "glowing" and all.  I just don't want to be one of them.  The thought of something GROWING INSIDE ME for nine months doesn't make me feel warm and fuzzy.  It makes me feel like Sigourney Weaver in those movies with the aliens (what WERE those movies called??--note the sarcasm).  I mean, I'd be going about my business, then all the sudden this little creature starts moving around inside me.  I'd expect it to just burst out of me and start dancing and singing "Hello, my baby!  Hello, my honey!  Hello my ragtime gal!" 

I think I'm getting off track.

Yes.  Well, carrying a child inside me doesn't really appeal to me.  Nor does the thought of actually giving birth.  The thought of squeezing out a baby doesn't fill me with happiness and warmth.  And I'd be one of those women who would want to do it all without an epidural, because there is NO WAY I want anyone sticking a needle up my spine.  And I know they would have to do that if I had to have a c-section--and the thought of being AWAKE while having a needle stuck in my spine AND THEN WATCHING THEM CUT ME OPEN doesn't really fill me with happiness and warmth either.  So if someone can devise a transporter beam that could just get the baby out of me without any pain and/or needles in my spine, I might consider this giving birth thing.  Otherwise, I'm not really for it.  And even then, would a transporter beam be safe?  I'm reminded from a scene from ANOTHER movie.  "But the creature is inside out.  ...AND it exploded."

So yeah.  Not really into the whole "only being good for childbirth" thing.

Then there's the whole not having indoor plumbing and central heating stuff.  As annoying as technology is, I do kind of like most of it.  I guess it wouldn't be SO bad if I had servants.  I could deal with being a Medieval Princess if I had people who would do all the tedious work--like laundry, but how often did they actually DO laundry back then?  Once a year?  And how often would I be allowed to bathe?  I kind of like taking showers every day.  I wouldn't be too happy about all those quack doctors telling me that bathing was unhealthy whilst covering me in leeches.  I'd want to say, "HEY DOCTORS!  YOU STINK!  AND GUESS WHAT!  I STINK, TOO!  BECAUSE NONE OF US TAKE BATHS!  TAKE YOUR LEECHES AND GO BALANCE SOMEONE ELSE'S HUMOURS!"  But I wouldn't be allowed to say that, because I would be a woman who was only good for birthin' the babies.

Then there's the plague.  Um.  'Nuff said.

So maybe I was born in the right century.  I thought for a long time that I wasn't.  I thought that I was supposed to be born in a century of Dragons and knights and poofy dresses and equally poofy hair.  But now that I think of it, I kind of like light bulbs.  I kind of like being able to write a blog on a magical glowing box of happiness.  I kind of like having a purpose other than restocking the population of unwashed, uneducated, plague-ridden masses.  Maybe I was born in the right century.

But maybe I was born in the wrong decade.  Because if I can't be a Medieval Princess, I've always thought I'd like to be a hippy.  Again, the long unkempt hair and pale skin wouldn't be too awful if I were a hippy.  I'd get to voice my opinions in protests and be able to read and write and everything.

But hippies don't take baths.  So I guess that wouldn't work out for me so well, after all.

SAA Ep. #37: Soccer Mom

Let's get one thing straight: There is NO such thing as a part-time mom. Even moms who have joint custody of their kids are full-time moms because they're constantly thinking/worrying about their kids. Being a mom is a full-time job. It just is.

I'm not a mom. BUT, if there WERE such a thing as a part-time mom, I would be one. In fact, if there were such a thing, I'd be a part-time soccer mom. I watch three girls who all participate in soccer and need to be driven around to different practices, games, and camps. So it's not uncommon for me to pile up three girls and their various equipment in my big ol' Ford Taurus and drive them around while they drive me crazy.

I guess I always thought I would be a soccer mom. Back in college, I used to drive a station wagon (also a Ford Taurus--an even BIGGER one than my current big ol' Ford Taurus). I loved that car (before it caught on fire and died, aww). I always pictured myself in it, driving hypothetical kids to hypothetical soccer practice in hypothetical glory, hypothetically being the most amazing hypothetical soccer mom in the hypothetical world, the hypothetical envy of all other hypothetical soccer moms.

Turns out, it's not at all easy being a soccer mom, even part-time (if there were such a thing). It is a lot of hard work. Before I started working for this family, I didn't know anything about soccer equipment. I mean, I knew there was a ball involved. ... Yeah, that was pretty much all I knew. Now, three girls of various sizes and ages expect me to know where they put their soccer socks, or if the shin guards they just found in the bottom of their bag are theirs or their sister's, or if they're going to need to wear their cleats or just regular tennis shoes for whatever practice they happen to be going to. I have to juggle snacks and water bottles/jugs and balls and bags and make sure I don't leave a kid behind by accident.

Then there's the hair. Let me just say, there's a reason I wear my hair down most of the time. I can't do anything with hair. I can put my own hair into a messy bun or pony tail or braid, but it's often hit or miss. Another person's hair? Fuhgedduhboudit. The girls have stopped asking me to help them put their hair in a ponytail. All except the youngest one (The Princess), because she told me, "You can do my hair, Ruth. I don't care if it looks dumb, and it never stays put anyway." Not exactly a vote of confidence, but at least I feel almost useful....

And I gotta say, I'm the part-time soccer mom (if there were any such thing) who forgets stuff. If I were a REAL soccer mom, the poor kids would be in a lot of trouble.  I'd forget to wash their uniforms because I'd be thinking about a new story idea.  I'd forget to put their water bottles in their bags because I'd be thinking about how much I like cheese. 

Fortunately the parents I work for are really good about reminding me AND having all their kids' stuff together in advance. Still, I've taken The Princess to her soccer camp twice this week and forgotten to sunscreen her up before we get there. I guess it's a good thing I'm pale and afraid of the sunshine--I carry a mini clip-on bottle of SPF 50 with me at all times. But this just means The Princess has to deal with the embarrassment of her part-time mom slathering last-minute sunscreen all over her face in front of her friends. Even to a six-year-old, that's kind of devastating. She'll be scarred for life and develop an irrational fear of sunscreen and have to go to therapy.

And the thing is, everyone does think I'm The Princess' actual mom. We both have curly blondish-brownish hair, pale skin, and blue eyes. We're also both very stubborn and have other similar personality traits that cause us to figuratively butt heads all the time, but that's neither here nor there. Apart from our similarities, there's also the fact that people see me driving her around and just naturally assume I'm the mom. So I get all these questions from the people in charge of the soccer activities and have to explain that I'm "just the nanny." One lady relentlessly argued with me about it, insisting that I was definitely The Princess' mom. The basis of her argument was that The Princess and I look a lot alike. I saw her point, but you know, I'd probably know it if I had a six-year-old kid...but that kind of logic is lost on some people.

The only time I get truly embarrassed about people thinking I'm the actual mom of The Princess and her older sisters, The Diva and The Drama Queen (who don't look/act nearly as much like me as The Princess), is when I happen to be out with the dad. Sometimes he needs help at soccer events, or sometimes we're all just rushing around like crazy people and he wants me to bring the girls to meet him at a restaurant. Then people assume I'm the mom AND his wife.

That's when awkward turtle wants to go hide in her shell.

But I'm not a turtle. I'm as close to being a part-time soccer mom as a person can get. So I can't go inside my shell. I can just go inside my big ol' Ford Taurus and try in vain to drown out the sounds of three loud girls playing PUNCH BUGGY NO PUNCH BACK! or singing chants they made up about their beverages of choice or playing I'M NOT TOUCHING YOU...or licking each other for no apparent reason.

Seriously, all joking aside, I kinda sorta love it. Maybe not the licking part...but being a soccer mom is fun!

And I'm officially a dork. I miss my station wagon.

No Time for an Update Ep. #3

I haven't had time for an update.

But I had time to make a stupid parody video!

(if you haven't seen the original crazy cat lady eharmony video, you should watch it first by clicking HERE)



Yes.  Yes.  It's the dumbest thing ever.  But I like Dragons and don't care who knows it!

SAA Ep. #36: Follow the Follower

I agreed to do VBS with my church this summer.  That doesn't sound like that big of a deal because I've done VBS in summers past.  They keep putting me in crafts, and I keep forgetting to tell them that I'm bad at crafts.  You'd think that after two years of watching me be bad at crafts and having evidence in both photograph and video form of my badness at crafts, they'd know that I'm bad at crafts.  I guess they just can't find anyone better who is willing to wrestle with glue dots while "leading" a table full of wild and crazy kids who are hyped up on popsicles.

This year, not only am I doing crafts, but I'm not doing preschool crafts.  I'm doing crafts with the regular aged VBS kids, which is a lot more different than I originally imagined.  Not only am I doing crafts with the regular aged VBS kids, but our church is doing this whole experimental thing where we use our church's kids as VBS guinea pigs before taking our VBS out into some trailer parks in the community.  I'm not saying it's a bad idea.  In fact, I LOVE this idea.  I'm excited about it.  It's taking ministry to a whole new level.  But...it's just new and different, and you may have picked up that I'm not exactly good with new and/or different things. 

Here's another thing I'm not good at: leading.  I'm a born follower.  I can be in charge of a group of kids or whatever, but it's a whole different matter to be "leading" crafts for a very different VBS.  This whole experience has reminded me that I'm not leadership material at all. 

In fact, just earlier today, someone was asking if I'd ever consider being a children's director at a church. 

I said, "Have you ever seen me in ANY kind of leadership role?"

My friend said, "No."

I replied, "There's a reason for that."

I have no organizational skills.  I have very little focus.  I get overwhelmed with minor little things, but I'm FAR from being detail-oriented.  In fact, I'm not even sure what "detail-oriented" means.  I'm basically the sort of person who likes to be told what to do.  Step by step.  Draw me a diagram.  Then hold my hand while I'm doing it, please!

I mean, I often am the administrative person at work.  I open most Saturdays and "lead" the shift.  But let me just point out that I've been working with this company for over five years...so it's not new and/or different.  Leading a Saturday shift at a drop-in childcare center just basically means that I try to keep all the kids from killing each other.

But all of the sudden, I show up for VBS and I'm handed a name tag that says, "Ruth Campbell: LEADER."  That is a scary, scary looking name tag. 

If I'm wearing such a name tag, average innocent bystanders might assume that I'm actually in charge of something.  They might assume that if they ask me a question, I'll know the answer.  What they don't know is that I'm the sort of person who can't make up her mind on the spot about anything.  Seriously, I was in a restaurant last night and the server asked if I wanted a drink refill.  I told her I had to think about it.  Apparently, I wasn't sure whether I was thirsty or not and couldn't make the commitment to having a full glass of water in front of me...

But you know, it's NOT really that big of a deal.  Yes, I'm a follower in a leadership role.  It happens sometimes.  Let's just be glad that this time, it's a minor leadership role.  No kids are going to be scarred for life if, under my "leadership," they end up having to take home a lame craft.  No kids are going to die if I stumble and stutter while trying to reemphasize the Bible story for the night.  No kids are going to hate my guts forever if I'm not the absolute best craft "leader" in the whole wide world.  Maybe I am just a craft "leader" because no one else was willing to wrestle with the glue dots while trying to control a table full of wild and crazy kids who are hyped up on popsicles.  And maybe just being willing to do something like that is qualification enough to make a follower like me a leader...temporarily.  It's not about me anyway, but about what God is going to do through all of us who are making ourselves available.  I like following Him, and I've heard He's a big fan of leading...

But generally speaking, the idea of me being any kind of leader is scary.  But...I'm not just any kind of leader for VBS...

I'm a leader WITH SCISSORS!  MUWAHAHAHAHAHAHA! 

Fear me.

SAA Ep. #35: One of the Guys

I had two best friends in kindergarten.  Their names were Michael and David.  Now, David moved away the summer after kindergarten, which is unfortunate, because according to my parents, I was going to marry one of them (Michael was out of the question because it was later discovered that he had "the cooties").  So thanks a lot for moving away, David.  Now I'm a spinster with a shriveling womb happily single.

Yeah, so, apparently, I talked about Michael and David nonstop.  They were my friends.  My buddies.  Mis amigos.  We did everything together.  It only got awkward a few times--like that Halloween, when I had the audacity to dress up like a GROSS My Little Pony.  That was almost enough to ruin our friendship.  That and the time I did a chalk picture of a rainbow with pretty little butterflies...but I digress.

For most of my life, I've gotten along better with guys than I have with other girls.  I'm not exactly sure why this is.  I don't really consider myself more masculine than other girls (although I did opt for taking Woodshop in high school instead of Home Ec Life Skills--that was actually a mistake, because now I think Life Skills would be more useful than knowing how to make a wooden race car--which I actually kind of sucked at) but I do know that I have a guy sense of humor.  I know this from years of experience of watching funny movies in mixed company.  The scenes I find funny are the scenes the guys find funny.  The scenes the other girls find funny aren't really all that funny to me.  And by the way, I'd rather watch a movie with a gazillion explody things than a chick flick.  I generally can't stand chick flicks.  There are a few I like, but only one that I LOVE (While You Were Sleeping).  The rest make me want to punch a baby unicorn.

I also like to punch things.  Or talk about punching things.  Same difference.  Unless you're my friend Amos.

And I've only had one boyfriend...ever...(probably because I punch things) and that wasn't until I was in my mid twenties.  That's not because I don't like guys.  I'm not exactly sure why guys never seemed to want to date me.  In fact, I'm not even exactly sure if guys didn't want to date me.  I have some kind of problem where I can't tell when a guy is hitting on me unless he is being VERY clear.  I look back on times in my high school years where guys were definitely asking me out, and I innocently thought they were just kidding around.  So I joked back and inadvertently rejected them.  Aww.  Now, there were other guys I knowingly rejected because they were clear enough to say, "I AM ACTUALLY ASKING YOU OUT, HERE" and I told them no...because they had "the cooties." 

But I do remember the first true female best friend I had.  She was at the first college I attended.  We did pretty much everything together.  Well, she and I were walking somewhere, and one of our mutual guy friends came up to us.  He ranted and raved about how great she looked.  He gave her a huge hug.  Then he said, "Hey, Ruth" as if it were an afterthought--which it probably was.  And I called him on it by saying, "So you give her all this attention and all I get is a 'Hey, Ruth'?"  I'll never forget his reply.  If you are a guy and are reading this (Amos), then pay attention.  You never.  Ever.  EVER. say this to a girl.  EVER.

He said, "Aw, come on.  You're just one of the guys."

I didn't punch him...but I thought about it.

It wasn't until I transferred to my second college that I came into a great group of guy friends who seemed to understand that females need to be treated like ladies.  That was a nice change from what I had been used to all my life.  But I still liked being around guy friends more than girls.

And it's really awkward these days because the older I get, the less single guy friends there seem to be.  I do have a few, but even they are all dropping like flies by getting engaged or entering into serious relationships with some of my female friends.  Funny how that happens to everyone besides me--but it's okay, because if any of them hit on me, I'd punch them in the face (that means YOU, Amos). 

And I really don't mind being friends with couples, but there are boundaries there that I completely agree with (such as, try not to be alone with a man who's married to someone who isn't you).  If I'm friends with the guy, then I'm gonna have to be friends with his wife.  So I have to be friends with the whole couple.  I'm not complaining so much as just stating how weird it all is to me who is still in that "It would be nice to go hang out with a group of guys" frame of mind.  At my age, there don't seem to be any groups of guys left for me to hang out with--unless I wanted to crash the men's conference at church.  I...uh...don't think that would be cool.  But I  know beyond the shadow of a doubt that I would like it better than a women's conference.  I can't even walk past the decorations for those things.  Doily tablecloths and flowers make me angry.  GRR.

But yeah, I guess I'm pretty blessed at this stage of my life to have a lot of couples who don't mind me third-wheeling their marriages from time to time....

Well, it's been about fifteen minutes since I punched something, so I'd better cut this blog short and go find me a baby unicorn.

SAA: Ep. #34: You Like Me! You Really Like Me!

Maybe it's because I'm socially awkward, or maybe because I'm female, or because I'm vain self-conscious or because I'm paranoid, or just because I'm human, but sometimes it strikes me really odd that people like me. 

The back story on this is that I was tremendously unpopular for, oh, let's just say 20 years.  It may have even been longer than that, but it doesn't really matter.  If you went to public school, then you probably remember reading graffiti on desks or in the used textbooks.  Sometimes, to tease their friends, people would write things like, "Joe loves *insert tremendously unpopular person's name here*." Usually Joe tried to scribble it out, but for some reason that sort of graffiti could never completely erased.  I'm sure somewhere in some condemned basement, there still lies a tattered math book with the words, "Brandon loves Ruth."  Because people used to do that with my name to tease one another.  I was that unpopular...and let me tell you, it's humbling to see your name used like that.

Kids are mean.  They pick on other kids to make themselves look cooler.  But you know what, I can't pass judgment, because I did the same sorts of things in failed attempts to raise my own pathetic social status.  I'm not proud of it, but it's the truth.

The few friends I did have were usually weird and unpopular, too.  I mean, there were a lot of popular people pitied me and were nice to me.  There were even a few popular people that genuinely liked me (and I've always been able to tell the difference--it's a gift...and a curse).  And really, while I know that the popular crowd almost ALWAYS starts the seemingly never ending battle of the popular crowd vs. the unpopular crowd, I have to take blame for my own actions and attitudes.  Because I didn't make myself more likable by being the arrogant snob I was in high school.  The whole "You think you're better than me?  Well guess what?  I'M better than YOU" attitude that I had was really immature and stupid.  It was a mask I wore to protect myself from the pain of being disliked. 

So it wasn't until I was almost in my early-to-mid-twenties before I realized something.  I wasn't unpopular anymore.  I had found an amazing group of friends (that just kept growing, and growing, and growing) at the second college I attended.  While I didn't believe any of my friends were only my friends out of pity, I just couldn't quite believe that people actually liked me for who I was.  I'd gotten used to being the weird socially awkward nerd that nobody liked. 

I was still a weird socially awkward nerd.  It's just that people liked me...not in spite of my weird socially awkward nerdiness, but BECAUSE of it.  Because apparently that's just who I am.  And I like it.  And other people do, too.  In my experience, when you become an adult, it's suddenly COOL to be a nerd. 

I remember distinctly the day it all came together.  I was talking to my best friend at the time.  I like to ramble, so I was rambling.  And I was going on and on about how weird it was that I had friends.  Finally, my friend stopped me and said, "Ruth.  People like you.  Get over it."

I don't know if I've gotten over it, but I've accepted it.  People like me.  I have been blessed with so many friends.  It's more a grace thing than something I deserve.  And I know that for other people, it's also a grace thing.  We're all weird and wacky and unlovable (when you really get down to it), but that's where grace comes in.  And I'm just thankful for the LARGE community of friends that God has given me.  None of us are perfect.  Grace is still needed.  But WOW it's just such a gift to be able to love and be loved.  I've got more friends than I can even begin to count.  No, no. I haven't gotten over it yet. 

But I have accepted it.  I consider that acceptance of being liked a crucial part of my growing up experience.

And so I guess my question to you is...can you relate?  Have you ever found it odd that people like you?  Have you ever had a time when you accepted it?  Are you still struggling with accepting it?  Or do you even feel like people like you at all?  Do you feel like people CAN like you?  Is there anything else you can think of that might relate to this blog that you want to share?  I kind of want to hear other stories here...so if you have ANYTHING to share, please comment!

Embarrablast From the Past Ep. 14: That One Time When My Car Ate Me

It's been so ridiculously hot here lately that I've felt the need to remind myself how much I ABHOR winter.  I hate cold.  I hate snow.  I hate ice.  I hate those things even more than I hate the deplorable summer sun that constantly threatens me with skin cancer and/or a heat stroke.  The last couple of days, I've stayed indoors with my friend Jerkface the Elliptical instead of trying to run in that heat.  I think I'd hate running in snow and ice even more, though.

One of the reasons I really hate winter is because I have to plan at least 10 extra minutes into my daily getting ready routine.  Why?  Because as soon as I'm ready to go, I have to spend at least 10 extra minutes cleaning all the ice off my car.  One day, I will have a house.  And that house will have a garage.  And I will park my car in it.  Until then, I am a victim to the elements.

Here's an added winter bonus with my car.  The driver door--the one I use to enter my car--likes to freeze shut when it gets really cold.  When this happens, I can pull the handle up, sometimes, but it doesn't open when I pull on it.  And if I do manage to get the handle up, then my door is technically "open" (at least as far as my car's sensors are concerned), and I have no way of getting it "closed" again until I am first able to open it.  And sometimes that doesn't even work.  Sometimes when I get the door open, it won't close again.  It won't seal shut.  And I can't drive it because the door won't close.  I've had to call work to let them know I'd be late because "I've gotten my car door open and it won't shut again."  I'm telling you...I have bad CARma. 

So one winter morning, I went out to my car so I could drive to church.  My car was covered in ice, and sure enough, my driver door would not open.  I went around to the passenger's side, thinking I'd just start the engine and wait for the car to thaw out.  It wouldn't open either.  So I tried the back passenger door, but it wouldn't let me in either.  I tried the last door, the rear driver's side door.  It opened!  I was in. 

So I closed the door behind me, leaned over the front seat, and started up the engine.  Then I tried to get out of the car again.  It wouldn't open.

The thing I had forgotten was that I had put the child safety locks on to keep the kids I nanny for inside the car.  What I didn't think about is that they would also keep ME inside the car.  The car door could only be opened from the outside.  And I was inside. 

And I was wearing a skirt.  I don't know what in the world made me think that wearing a skirt in the middle of winter was a good idea.  I usually stick with pants in the winter...because cold legs just aren't my thing.

But here I was, awkwardly climbing over the front seat of my car in a skirt.  It took me a few minutes, but once I was there, I tried opening the driver door again.  It was still stuck.  I was trapped inside my own car!!  It was like my car had eaten me!

Of course, the car did eventually thaw out.  I did eventually make it to church--about half an hour late.  The car door did eventually open to let me out.

It took me some time to get it closed again, though.

But that was the day I turned off my car's child safety locks.