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. #65: The Birfday Adventure

My birfday was almost a week ago, but my internet was down for most of the week.  This is the first chance I've had to blog about my wonderful, exciting, adventurous, and (of course) slightly awkward birfday.

My birfday started out early because of church.  After church, several of my friends and I ended up at Applebees.  My Sunday School Bible Study teacher, his wife, and four kids came, too.  That was awesome for me, because those kids are awesome. The best quote from my entire birthday came from the six year old who was seated next to me.  I was eating my free birthday ice cream, but most of it had melted by the time I got to the bottom.  That didn't stop me from continuing to eat it.  The six year old asked, "Why are you eating your ice cream juice?"

Because it's my birfday, kid.  That's why.

After lunch, my roommate and I went to the science museum.  She wasn't all that excited about the science museum, but pretty soon she started getting interested in the whale skeletons (I was interested in those, but mainly just because I firmly believe that in 1986, Admiral James T. Kirk and the crew of the former U.S.S. Enterprise came back in time on a Klingon vessel with the sole purpose of capturing two Humpback whales to bring back to the 23rd century, in an attempt to repopulate the species--as well as get rid of a silly probe that was going to destroy the earth).  Me?  I was far more fascinated by the inch worm that had discovered my hand.  Inch worms are adorable.  Or at least they used to be.

Inch worms love me.  I usually pick up about twenty of them when I go running in the springtime.  Apparently they think I'm a giant shuttle bus or something.  It's probably because I just run back and forth up and down their sidewalk.  A few of them forget to get off at their stop (not that I stop for them anyway), so when I get done from my run, there are still a good dozen of them clinging for dear life to my shirt, pants, or shoes.  And really, by the time I've had to pull the seventh inch worm out of my hair, they aren't that adorable anymore.  But the one at the museum, which wasn't part of any of the exhibts, still captured my attention more than the stuff I was supposed to be looking at.

It wasn't that I wasn't interested in the museum exhibits.  It's just that I have the attention span of a three year old.

Well, my attention span grew up a little bit when we reached the small gem exhibit.  I don't like jewels as much as my sister or mom, but I'm still a girl, and I can appreciate a shiny object or two. 

...and then my attention span rapidly deteriorated again when we reached the dinosaurs...

...I pretty much became a three year old again.



This guy needs a 900 lb. cheeseburger.



Aww.  He's cute.  I think I want one.



It's a Pachycephalosaurus!  This is one of my favorite dinosaurs (probably because it has a hard head)!  I got so excited about seeing him (I call him Pachie) that I almost caused a scene. 

 So, I was not eaten by any dinosaurs...but...

...in a completely unexpected turn of events, I was eaten by a giant praying mantis.

THE END.

Wait...

...no it isn't.

After the museum, my roommate dropped me off to pick up my car from Applebees.  I needed to go by Walmart on the way home because my mom had given me a gift card so that I could purchase a running/hydration belt.  If you don't know what that is, think of a fanny pack.  Then erase the fanny pack stigma from your mind, add on holsters for water bottles, and you have a vague idea of what a running belt is.  It's a useful belt for holding water and other stuff while you're running.  I think that the fact that I wanted a running belt for my birthday qualifies me as one of those crazy running people. 

Anyway, I was starting to turn to get on one road, when I remembered there was a newer, much more better Walmart right next to the Applebees.  So I changed lanes quickly and started to go across a busy intersection.  I was kinda sorta already in the middle of the intersection when I realized that I had a red light.  I slammed on my brakes and just generally freaked out.  I would like to be able to say that I almost died on my birthday (because that sounds exciting and tragic).  Really, I just made myself look like an idiot and ticked a bunch of much more cautious drivers off.  But hey--traffic signals don't matter on your birthday...right?  ...

After all this birthday excitement, you'd think I'd have had enough, right?  Yeah, me too.  Well, I went to Walmart.  I found my running belt (which, by the way, I LOVE.  I took it out on a nine mile run the other day, and it was pretty much the coolest fanny pack running accessory ever).

Well, my mom had given me a card for a certain amount, and after the running belt, I still had a little $$ left over.  I thought to myself, "Self, you should get a birthday cake."  I mean, it all balances out, right?  A running belt in one hand, a cake in the other.  Yeah.

I meant to just get one of those little individual slices of cake, but they were so expensive compared to the reduced price full cakes.  I looked over all that the bakery had to offer, and my eyes kept going back to this one particular cake.  It was white with pink trim.  Now, pink is no longer my favorite color, but when I was a kid--everything was pink.  If it wasn't pink, it wasn't right.  And somewhere in my psyche, I connected the color pink to birthdays.  So I wanted this pink and white cake.  Also, the cake was two layer: one chocolate, one vanilla--two of my favorite cake flavors.  And it was only a few dollars more than the little individual cake slices. 

Still, I wasn't sure. 

So I stared at the cakes.

As I was staring at the cakes, I heard someone talking to me.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but you're so pretty.  Where are you from?"

I looked up to see a man smiling at me.  He was maybe 5-10 years older than me, and not all that creepy-looking.  I was taken aback by his direct approach.  I'm pretty clueless when it comes to guys being interested in me, but this was obvious enough for even ME to get.  I am never interested in making any kind of love connection with a stranger, but I've really been convicted lately about being rude to people--so I decided to be cautiously pleasant, which went completely against my gut instinct to run away like a little girl.

I think he figured I was from another country (I guess I'm too pale to be American), because after he found out I was from the U.S., he asked about my heritage.  Then he asked if I was single.  Then he asked if I was a lesbian.  He said he just wanted to make sure.  Then he asked me a few more questions.  For a moment, I wondered if he wasn't really hitting on me, but was actually trying to figure out information so he could try to steal my identity--but since he never asked me about my mother's maiden name or anything like that, I guess he was just really interested in me.  I was starting to wonder how I was going to let this guy down easy, when he sighed and said, "I should go before I get in trouble."  He reluctantly pointed to a gold ring on his left finger and said, "I am married, you see, and I should go find my wife before she finds me here with you."

Umm, yeah...

Then he paused before leaving, smiled awkwardly and said, "But, really, you're just so beautiful."

And he went away. 

I paused for a moment, silently freaking out over the whole situation, 1) because I never get hit on by anyone, let alone strangers, let alone married strangers, and I have no idea how to cope with that sort of thing, and 2) because what kind of married guy just goes around hitting on women as they look at cakes in Walmart?

Then I came to my senses and grabbed the pink and white cake, because obviously that cake made me more attractive. 

And even if it wasn't the cake, I figure it couldn't hurt.

Because even if it was a creepy married dude, it's always nice to have someone think you're pretty.  Especially on your birthday.  And it never hurts to have a pink and white cake.

And it never hurts to look like Santa Claus, unless you're a hobo.  ...but that's an entirely different story.

The cake? I definitely ate three slices that night.  I don't know if it made me more attractive, but it did give me a killer cake hangover--or a "cakeover," if you will.

...and the next day at work, just as I was telling my friend Kara about my massive cakeover, she presented me with a birthday cake pop.

Hmm.

It's the thought that counts.

(Actually, the cake pop was awesome, as was the latte she bought me!  My birthday was excellent and adventurous!  I'm really liking 32 so far!)

SSA Ep.#58: Shoepping

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SAA Ep.# 57: Christmas Brain

Ah, Christmas.  It's the magical time of year when everyone's brain turns to mush.  I like to call this phenomenon the "Christmas Brain."

Do you remember that old movie with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan?  No, no.  Not "You've Got Mail."  The other one.  Yeah...wait, no.  Not "Sleepless in Seattle."  I mean the OTHER one.  "Joe VS. the Volcano."  Yeah.  That one.  You don't remember it?  Okay, well never mind then.  I mean, the movie is awesome, although completely impossible to understand.  But Tom Hanks' character (Joe) is diagnosed with an imaginary "disease" known as a "Brain Cloud."  I am of the opinion that a "Brain Cloud," if it were in fact a real disease, would be a lot like the "Christmas Brain."  Only Christmas Brain only takes place during the holidays, and the Christmas Brain isn't usually fatal...and also, no one has to jump into a volcano, although sometimes the Christmas Brain makes you want to do crazy, crazy things.

Christmas Brain is the reason why every single December, I trick myself into believing that I can successfully make 1000 cake truffles/chocolate covered pretzels/pieces of biscotti, etc. etc. in a single evening.  After realizing that I can't make all that stuff and still keep my sanity, I choose to forfeit my sanity.  This loss of sanity leads to an even greater case of Christmas Brain, which leads to all sorts of what I like to call Christmas Fails.

For instance, the preschool where I work is a Christian preschool.  We're not allowed to discuss Santa Claus or any of the secular aspects of Christmas, and I completely agree with and support this rule.  There's nothing wrong with flying reindeer, but a Christian preschool isn't the place for it.  Anyway, the last day of preschool before the Christmas break, one of the other teachers brought in "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" for the kids to watch.  I remember filtering the situation through my brain, as I often do when confronted with a situation that might be against the rules.  I thought, "Rudolph.  Flying Reindeer.  Nothing against the rules there.  It's Rudolph!  Of course we're allowed to watch that."  Now, if my brain were normal, and not a Christmas Brain, I would have come to a different conclusion.  I would have thought, "Rudolph.  Flying Reindeer.  AND Santa Claus.  We can't watch this here.  Let's watch VeggieTales."  Fortunately, the preschool director caught us just in time and made us turn it off--all the while looking at us like we were crazy.  I think we all had the Christmas Brain...which led to an epic Christmas Fail.

I've noticed the Christmas Brain/Christmas Fails in a lot of people, but I think Walmart workers have it pretty bad.  It's not their fault, bless them.  Long hours, cranky customers, busy, busy, busy.  It's easy to get upset with retail workers, but I think it's just a lot more fun to just laugh at them and move on.  And when I'm laughing at them, I'm really laughing with them, because I've got the Christmas Brain, too.

I had one Walmart employee try to help me out by directing me to a "20 Items or Less Line."  I figured she was telling me that one of the lines was open, so I left my spot in a reasonably short line and went to the checkout she indicated.  Only the line she directed me to was significantly longer than the line I left.  And by the time I realized the problem with her "help," I'd lost my place in the shorter line.  So I stood there, laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation.  Otherwise, I might have been crying. 

Speaking of crying, the Christmas Brain leads to a complete loss of emotional control during the holidays.  I found myself in Target the other day, staring at the Christmas decorations on sale, and I started crying because I just love Christmas so much, and Christmas was almost over, and I just love Christmas so much, and I'm not ready for it to be over...and I just love Christmas so much.  And I had a serious case of the Christmas Brain.

The great thing about the Christmas Brain is that it continues even after Christmas.  I went into Walmart a few days after Christmas, trying to get a soda and some money on my gas card, so I could drive a few hundred miles from KY to NC.  I instructed the lady to put $25 on my card, and handed her the soda so I could also pay for that...or so I thought.  She scanned my card in order to put the $25 on it...or so I thought.  She handed me my soda, my gift card, and a receipt, and I hadn't paid for anything...or so I thought. 

It took me a few seconds to realize that she had used my gift card (which already had a few dollars on it) to pay for my soda.  I said, "No, I wanted $25 put on my gift card."  She looked at me for a few seconds, then smiled and said, "You know what we can do?  We can put $25 on your card."  Um....

I said, "Yes, that's what I'm asking you to do."  She looked at me another few seconds, then said, "I know.  I'll just put $25 on your card."  I was tempted to grab my card out of her flustered fingers and run to another cash register with an employee who wasn't suffering as strongly from the Christmas Brain, but I decided to give her one more chance.  She put the money on my card, handed me my soda, and said, "There.  Now you have your $25 on your card, and you also have your soda," as if this were news to me or something.  I just nodded, smiled, and made sure she gave me the proper receipts, just in case she still wasn't sure about the transaction that had just taken place.

It's things like the Christmas Brain that make me almost glad that this time only comes once a year.  ...but then there's always the Valentine's Day Brain, the Easter Brain, the Halloween Brain, and the "I Just Feel Like Going Crazy for No Apparent Reason" Brain.  All of them help make life more interesting.