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

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

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

That's all I want.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Honest mistake, right?  No harm done, right?

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

Here's what I'm talking about:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because I'm Socially Awkward Girl.

That's why.

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

SAA Ep. #63: A Space for Every Car, and Every Car in its Space

A friend came up to me at church the other night and said, “Hey! I noticed you actually parked in a different parking space tonight. Good job!”

Now, granted, this friend of mine is a pretty odd character, but even with his peculiarities, I thought it strange to be praised for something as mundane as having parked in a different parking spot than usual.

Yeah, only I didn’t park in a different spot than usual. I found myself explaining to my odd friend that I have a usual “Sunday morning parking spot” and a usual “Sunday night parking spot.” I went on to give him such superfluous information as, “My Sunday night parking spot is also the parking spot I use on days when I teach at the church’s preschool program,” and “I park in a different spot on Sunday mornings because more people come, and I like to park further away so that families and old people can get better parking spaces,” and “Last Sunday night I parked in my Sunday morning spot because we were having a church meeting, and I thought more people would come to that, so I wanted to free up more good spaces.”

My friend, odd as he is, blinked at me. I think it was because I was the odder one in that particular situation. Tee hee! Odder sounds like otter! I like otters.

Ahem.

So, after leaving church, I had to go to Walmart for a few things. I also planned on getting gasoline at the Walmart gas station. So when I pulled into the Walmart parking lot, I pulled into my “I’m going to get gasoline after I shop” parking spot, as opposed to my “quickest way to get out of the parking lot” space. And I had the sudden realization that I have usual parking places almost everywhere I go. In fact, in most cases, I have two (or more) usual parking spaces.

I also drove to Target after getting gas at Walmart, and I pulled into my “I’m coming from this direction” parking space instead of my “I’m coming from this other direction” parking space.

After doing all my shopping, I drove back to my apartment, where I pulled into my “it looks and feels as though it might frost a little overnight, so I’ll try to position my car in a way that my tall apartment building doesn’t block the first warm rays of the slowly rising sun” space as opposed to my “I’m lazy and just want the space closest to my apartment door” space, and as opposed to my “I’m feeling generous and charitable to the neighbors that live in the apartment building next to mine and want to give them a closer parking space, even though they snub me and their yippy dog poops next to my porch” space, and as opposed to my “HOLY CRAP are ALL MY NEIGHBORS having a party at the SAME TIME? Why is the only space left the stinky one next to the dumpster that is hard to back out of on account of the aforementioned dumpster?” space.

I thought about it a little, and I also have multiple parking spaces at work. I either park in the “this is my space” parking space or the “OH NOES! Kara took my space so I’ll park in this other space” space.

Okay, I admit it. It’s a little quirky. I mean, growing up, my parents always just tried to get the parking space that was closest to whatever building we were trying to enter. I think most people live by that kind of logic. Most people base their parking spot decision on what will allow them quickest access to the building. This doesn’t require any strategy or planning. And why should it? It’s just something simple—parking a car.

Yeah, but I’m me. I make everything a little more complicated, a little more awkward, and a little more fun! My parking thought processes are a little different. Usually, I’m thinking, “What parking space will allow me easiest exit from the parking lot?” My way of thinking actually requires quite a bit of planning and strategy, which, yes, makes me odd.

And things are about to get otter odder.

Here’s how I go about selecting a good parking spot:

1) Ain’t Too Proud to Walk

When I go to Walmart or church (on a Sunday morning), I park pretty far away from the door. Do you know how long it takes me to cross the entire parking lot of my church? About 20 seconds. Do you know how long it takes me to cross the entire parking lot of Walmart? Probably about 45 seconds. Now, I can understand that if you have three kids in tow, or if you have arthritis in both knees, you might want to park a little closer. It’s just that I see relatively young and healthy individuals fight over the closer parking spots, hoping to save a little bit of time and effort. They spend far more time and gas and energy trying to find a close parking spot than they would if they just parked a little further away and walked an extra few yards.

At Walmart, I park far away, but I make sure I’m also parking next to one of those grocery cart return thingies. It irks me when people don’t return their carts to those cart return thingies. The only way I can justify not returning a cart would be if zombies attacked Walmart. If zombies attack Walmart, by all means, roll your cart at them and run like the dickens.  (I'm not sure where the saying "the dickens" came from, but if a zombie Charles Dickens were chasing me, I doubt I'd be running like the dickens.  I'd be like, "HEY!  You're an undead Charles Dickens!  Can I have your autograaaaaaaaaaufhghg!?" And he would eat my brainz.  I'd be honored to have Charles Dickens eat my brainz, by the way.)

2) Only Back It Up Back It Up When Absolutely Necessary

The bane of my parking lot existence is those little concrete barriers they put between two parking spaces that are lined up in the same little row. I like it when I can pull my car into one space and just drive it on through to the space across from it so that the front of my car is facing the opening of the space. No backing up necessary! I use these convenient spaces whenever humanly possible…even if it means I have to park further away from the building (see #1).

3) Circumnavigate the Globe Lot

One of the easiest ways to slow down the entry into or exit from a parking lot is to go where pedestrians typically cross. Whenever possible, I go around the parking lot instead of through it. It might seem like a waste of time and gas to go a longer distance around a parking lot, but nine times out of ten, if I take the shorter distance to where more pedestrians are, I have to stop multiple times to avoid hitting someone, which wastes time and gasoline. On a related note, as a person who likes to walk across parking lots, I take great delight in making cars stop for me as I enter the “crossing zone.” Fools shoulda gone around the other way….

4) Permanent Parking

I’m not one of those people who gets upset if someone parks in my space (like that parking tyrant Kara). I’m not that possessive of public property, okay. It’s just not that big of a deal to me if I don’t park in the same place every time—I just prefer to have consistency in my parking spaces. I am a creature of habit that doesn’t like change, but there’s a greater reason why I typically like to park in the same general places.

It has happened to all of us. We leave a store and realize that we can’t remember where we parked. I really don’t know how I ever survived before I got a car with a remote. As embarrassing as it can be, sometimes it’s just necessary to click the don't panic button on the remote so that I can locate my beeping and flashing car in a crowded parking lot.

The other day I was walking towards a car that looked just like mine. Same color, same features—sunroof and spoiler and everything. It wasn’t until I tried to unlock the door that I realized it wasn’t mine. Mine was located a few feet behind it, and I didn’t realize it until the headlights came on—on the car behind the one I was trying to unlock. It kind of freaked me out a little. I think someone parked that car so close to mine just to mess with my head. …they’re out to get me, I tell you….

Yeah, so everyone misplaces their cars, but I’ve found that the chances of it happening are much less if one parks in the same space (or general area) every time they visit a particular parking lot. Knowing where your car is without having to think about it is always a good thing. It speeds up the exiting of the parking lot, and you don’t end up looking like an idiot because you don’t know where you put your car. Win-Win.



You can judge me for my quirky behavior if you want, but the way I see it, there’s nothing wrong with having a “Parking Lot Plan.” There’s nothing wrong with having a “Parking Lot Entrance and Exit Strategy.” There’s nothing wrong with having a usual parking space, along with a backup space or two. There’s nothing wrong with being extra prepared when it comes to those awkward parking situations.

I mean, haters gonna hate, but we’ll see who gets out of the parking lot first when the zombies attack Walmart. ...with otters....

SAA Ep. #54: I Get Around

Sorry for the extended absence.  I've been busy.  First I was packing for a brief vacation (while simultaneously trying to make a birthday video for my nephew and watching the Cards compete in the World's Series), then I was on said brief vacation, and now I'm recovering from the brief vacation.  I was out of town about 3.5 days, and about 20 hours of that was driving a rental car up to KY and back.  And another 8 or so hours of that was riding as a passenger in my mom's car, but I digress.

Let's go back to that 20 hours of driving a rental car thing, because that's pretty much what this post is about.  I'm 31 years old, but until recently, I've never actually rented a car.  The only reason I did this time is because my car is dying, and I owe more on it than the car is actually worth (fun, fun!), so getting a new car isn't really an option at the moment.  Then the amazing family I nanny for decided I needed a present for being their nanny/babysitter for 3 years, and they decided to pay for a rental car for my trip to KY.  So I rented a car.

Now, the cheapest deal for renting a car around here was to rent one from the airport, and honestly, I'm not too sure that I'm supposed to rent a car from the airport unless I'm actually flying into the airport.  So when I reserved the car, I had all this nervousness aside from the usual nervousness I feel when I try anything new--like renting a car.  I was also nervous because I was renting a car when I wasn't sure I was supposed to be renting a car, but I figured I'd abide by my own version of the "don't ask, don't tell" policy.  If they didn't ask me if I was flying in from another area, I wouldn't tell them that I wasn't.

My friend dropped me off at the airport and walked in with me (because I needed someone to hold my hand--I really don't do new experiences well).  Everything went smoothly.  I bid farewell to her, got in the car, and drove up to the gate to depart the rental car area. 

Now, let me just say that driving a car that's not mine is like wearing someone else's clothes--only even more dangerous.  This car only had about 1100 miles on it, so when I did something like step on the accelerator, it actually went vroom without a fight.  When I stepped on the brakes, the car immediately stopped without any coaxing.  This is what a car is supposed to do, but my poor old dying car needs prodding.  It needs a firm hand.  I actually kind of like this about my car.  I know it's not going to do something that I haven't specifically told it to do.  And this new car I was driving, well, it responded way too quickly for my comfort. And I didn't opt for the optional insurance (everyone says that's a rip-off...which I guess it is, unless you get into an accident).  So I was a nervous wreck the whole time I was driving it, which was, as I said before, about 20 hours.

But before I ever got out of the gate, I had a problem.  I couldn't figure out how to roll the windows down.  So when the guy at the gate wanted to look at my receipt, I had to pull the "helpless blonde" routine, and the nice man showed me how to roll down my windows.  I was pushing the button the wrong direction, okay.  It could have happened to anyone. 

But after the nice man taught me how to push a button, he asked me a question.  "Where are you coming from?"

Ugh.  I didn't want to admit that I was from the same city as the airport, so I said, "Around."

He said, "Everyone has to come from somewhere."

I said, "I'm from Kentucky," which wasn't a lie.  I am from KY.  That's why I was renting a car so I could drive to KY.  He just didn't need to know that specific detail. 

I got out of the airport and was on my way.  It occurred to me a couple hours into my trip that I was going to double the mileage on the rental car.  As I had unlimited mileage use for the car, I wasn't too worried (don't, ask, don't tell), but it just struck me as funny.  I had never driven a car this new, and that made me even more nervous, but eventually I got the feel for the car. 

And I drove that thing to KY and back without hurting it at all.  I didn't have a wreck.  I didn't run it off the road.  I didn't get a scratch on it.  And I was breathing a huge sigh of relief as I pulled into a gas station about 2 miles from the airport so I could refill the tank.  It was then that I opened the car door directly into a concrete pole.

D'oh.

Fortunately, the story does have a happy ending.  The car was undamaged.  I turned it in.  No one said a word about the fact that I'd doubled the mileage on the car. 

And now I can add "car rental" to my list of  life experiences. 

Woo hoo! Dream big!

SAA Ep.# 46: Stereotypical Stoplight Guy

Stoplights are probably some of the most interesting things ever invented, and they were invented by a black guy (from central KY, because people from central KY are awesome).  History is full of intelligent black men and women who have done some amazing things.  I also happen to know several hardworking black men and women who are upstanding citizens with amazing families.  So don't think I'm being racist when I speak of the stereotypical black guy who seems to be at every stoplight I encounter.

He drives some kind of souped up hooptie car.  I'm not even sure if that's how you spell hooptie, but that's what I'm going with.  He's wearing a muscle shirt and/or wifebeater.  His hair is either in awesome dreads or covered up with some kind of doo-rag...sometimes both at the same time.  His windows are rolled down.  His license plate says something like, "GNGSTALV."  Oh, and he's playing his angry rap shouting music so loudly that every car at the stoplight is shaking in time with its obnoxious vibrations.

And maybe I'm not speaking for everyone, but I think that a very small part of most of the other people at that stoplight wishes they could be as cool as stereotypical black guy.

As a hopelessly white girl, there's no way I could ever be as cool as stereotypical black guy.  I wish I could say that that kept me from trying. 

I drive a Taurus.  There's nothing hooptie about a Taurus.  I mean, despite the sunroof and spoiler on the back, my car still screams "SOCCER MOM!"  I have entertained the idea of getting a vanity plate, but I've got some personal convictions about spending $30 bucks a year just so people will be able to sit at stoplights and puzzle over the meaning of the cutesy saying I've legally plastered to the back of my car.  But if I did get a vanity plate, it wouldn't say anything cool with the word "GNGSTA."  I know what it would say.  It would say "BADHIPPY."  The reason it would say "BADHIPPY" is because I am, in fact, a bad hippy.  And I am a bad hippy not because I'm a hippy that has been naughty, but because I'm a hippy, and I'm very bad at it. 

But since the NC DMV only allows eight letters on their vanity plates, I can't get a vanity plate that says, "I'm a bad hippy because I'm a hippy, and I'm bad at it."  So I can see a vanity plate that says, "BADHIPPY" leading to all sorts of misunderstandings. 

Some people might assume that I'm a naughty hippy who likes to protest war and smoke various substances and do all the things that naughty hippies do.  That's not the case.  The very reason that I am a bad hippy is because I don't do all the things that hippies are supposed to do.  I mean, for one thing, I take showers every day.  But people who read my vanity plate wouldn't know that, and they might hate me for being an unpatriotic pothead, which isn't the case.

Then, on the other hand, I can see some actual hippies reading my actual vanity plate, and they might assume that I'm insulting hippies.  If my car were parked somewhere--let's just say the Wal-mart parking lot--and some hippies saw my vanity plate and were offended, they'd probably call up all their hippy friends.  So when I left Wal-mart to return to my car, there would be a full blown hippy protest party going on on top of my car.  Hmm...on second thought...that might be pretty amazing....

But even if I did have a cool vanity plate that led to spontaneous hippy parties, I still would not be as cool as stereotypical black guy. 

I do like to roll my windows down when the weather is nice.  Lately, the temperatures have been near or over 100 degrees here, so I've actually used my common sense and utilized my car's air conditioner.  But when the weather is closer to 60-80 degrees, I'll roll the windows down.  I have several reasons for this.  1) I really like the feel of the wind on my face and in my hair.  I'm a bad hippy, after all.  2) Despite all the google articles I've read that state the contrary, I really do feel that I'm getting better gas mileage if I don't use the air conditioning.  3) I like being obnoxious and blasting my music for everyone to hear it.

Only, I don't like rap music.  I don't even like what's popular on the radio these days.  I listen to Christian radio.  And most of the cds I listen to are also Christian artists.  The ones that aren't Christian artists are artists that are closer to my grandfather's age than they are to mine.  The ones that are Christian artists are either dead or so obscure that even other people who listen to Christian radio haven't even heard of them.  So if you happen to drive up beside me at a stoplight and we both have our windows down, you might just be treated to some Rich Mullins.  So instead of hearing some obnoxiously loud reverberating cool rap, you're gonna hear some obnoxiously loud hammered dulcimer.  Oh yeah.  I'm awesome. 

Maybe I should just get some dreads.

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.

Just Sayin' Ep. #5: No Hairs Were Harmed in the Making of this Blog

When the sun roof is open on your car and it suddenly starts raining, make sure your hair has not "floated" into the sun roof's opening before trying to close it. 

It kind of hurts. 

And you get wet.

And it hurts.

Just sayin'.

Embarrablast From the Past Ep. #12: Bad CARma

I never learned to roller skate.  Ever.
(Ice skating?  Pssh.  No.)
I didn't learn to ride a bike until I was fifteen years old and pretty much said, "Man, it's pathetic that you never learned to ride a bike.  Go learn now."  And I did.  I haven't ridden one SINCE I was fifteen years old, and I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't be able to anymore.  That's right.  I don't buy into that "oh, it's like riding a bike...once you learn you never forget" nonsense. 
I tried a skateboard once.  Two seconds of that ridiculousness, and I was done. 

So when it came time for me to learn to drive, I was pretty sure it was going to be an adventure.  And it was.  I learned that if I let my dad teach me to drive, I would NEVER learn.  He and I are too much alike in too many not-so-good ways, so my driving lessons became shouting matches, and I decided mom would teach me to drive.  So we spent a lot of time with me driving in parking lots, around subdivisions, on the main road driving 25 mph in a 55 zone. 

And then I figured I was ready for my license.  I passed that written test to get my permit so easily, but I didn't do so well on the actual driving test.  I failed it.  I failed it once.  I failed it twice.  Third time was finally the charm, and I did amazingly well that third time.  The other two failures were not entirely my fault (they were mostly my fault--but one of the people I tested with was really soft-spoken and I couldn't understand what she wanted me to do.  The other was a drill Sergeant who screamed at me the entire time and made me nervous), but I think it was good they failed me.  I wasn't ready to drive. 

When I did get my license, I had a good few years of backing into parked cars and driving into ditches and running into concrete walls.  It got so bad that I prayed I wouldn't hit anything EVERY time I started the engine.  My poor parents.  Those accidents were just bad driving on my part.  But then there were all these weird incidents of me getting rear ended while "safely" stopped at red lights, of tires just going flat for no apparent reason.  And I began to realize that while I definitely wasn't the greatest driver in the world, part of my problem was just that I had bad CARma.

Now, I don't know too much about cars, but I can accurately diagnose a few basic problems.  The reason I can diagnose these problems is because I have had a LOT of car trouble in the fourteen years (or so) that I've been driving.  I've had alternators go out and brakes just completely disintegrate.  I've had bad starters and computer malfunctions and leaky radiators that make my car look like it's on fire.  I've even had my cruise control go bonkers and try to kill me...that was fun.

I've probably ridden on a tow truck about a dozen times.  AAA is a necessity for someone like me.
Well, I had to take my car into the shop this week--for an annual inspection which is required by law in NC.  I knew it wouldn't pass inspection because that silly check engine light was on.  It needed some work done that wasn't too outrageously expensive.  But I also needed new tires, an alignment, etc.  So I ended up paying about $500 on auto stuff in two days time.  Ouch.

And because I knew my car needed work, I had a friend/coworker drive me to work yesterday.  We got done working and got in her car.  It wouldn't start. 

Apparently, bad CARma is contagious.

It is also apparent that I need to marry a mechanic.  Taking applications...