Why I'd Make a Horrible Doctor Who Companion

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

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

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

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

Yeah, at least that has been my experience.

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

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

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

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

A girl can dream...

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

1. I'd fall in love with him.

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

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

2. I'm socially awkward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. I'm afraid of everything.

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

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

...or not...

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

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

Grace: Yeah.

Eighth Doctor: So am I.

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

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

4. I lack basic athletic skills.

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

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

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

5. I'm too silly.

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

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

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

But then again, it could work.  

If I were ginger...

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

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

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

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

I forgot.

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

Happy running.

The Socially Awkward ABCs

There’s something I’ve noticed during my time working with children.  Pretty much anyone can write an A-B-C book.  Dr. Suess’ ABCs is the best, in my opinion.  I can recite from "Aunt Annie’s Alligator" to "Five Fluffy Feathers on a Fiffer Feffer Feff."  Yeah.  That man knew how to write an A-B-C book. 

Most of them aren’t that creative.  In fact, most of them are boring.  “A is for Apple.  B is for Bunny.  C is for Cat.”  D is for downright dull.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I should write an A-B-C book.  An A.wkward B.ook of C.haracters, if you will. 

Yeah.  Here goes nothing…

An Awkward Book of Characters:

A is for Awkward, the best way to be,

Even if it causes some slight Anxiety.

Awesome is a word that I really love to say

And Also Aardvark, because it has too many A’s!

B is for Butterfly, though some aren’t very social,

And B is for Bipolar Bear, who sometimes goes postal,

For Bilious, Bungalow, Boorish, and Bree,

And B is for Beaver, which (contrary to popular Belief) isn’t “one who Beaves.”

C is for Cantankerous, it Can’t make up its mind

Whether to sound like sssss in Ceiling, or like Cuh in Climb,

And sometimes it sounds different like in the word Chew.

This is why I prefer kayak to the word Canoe.

D is for Darkness, Depression, Dismal, and Despair.

It also is for Didgeridoo, but that’s neither here nor there.

I often like to talk about the land of Dusseldorf

Because it sounds a lot like the name David Hasselhoff.

E is for an Epic Episode of Embarrassment

Which I Experience a lot because I’m not that Eloquent.

I talk about Erythritol, but nobody really cares.

So I go home and cry and make sugar free Éclairs.

F is for Fail.  I Fail a lot.

I had more to say, but I Failed, and I Forgot.

G is for Gym, Gem, but never Jim.

You’ll have to wait for J to hear about him.

Only, Guess what!  You won’t!  You’re so Gullible!

GYNECOLOGY!  I said that to make you feel uncomfortable.

H is for Handkerchief.  It’s not a kerchief for your Hand.

It’s not Ker, the Hand people tribe chieftain.

I Hear it is for Helping to wipe snot from your nose.

I just call it “snot rag,” which you didn’t want to know.

I is for Idiom, Isosceles, and other cool words

Like Ice and Igloo, but that’s another kind of cool.

Incredulous! Immunity! Igneous! Immense!

Ichthyosaur! I’m so done with this.

J is for Jim; that’s right, I changed my mind.

I said you wouldn’t hear of him, but I lied!

Jim Jumped Jubilantly and Jovially Jeered!

Don’t ask me why.  That guy is Just weird.

K is for Kazoo, which anyone can play.

K is for Kaleidoscope, a colorful display!

K is for Kitten, Koala, Kangaroo,

And K is for a Killer whale that’s going to eat you.

L is for Llama, a word with Lots of L’s!

Okay, so it’s only two…yeah, oh, well.

Look, don’t start with me; L’s a hard Letter.

Let’s just Lumber on and hope M is better.

M is for Marbles, Maybe you have lost some?

There are so Many Marvelous Marbles, and you haven’t got ‘em.

Maniac! Madman! Mayhem! Murder! Machete!

Oh, wait, the one who lost her Marbles was Me.

N is for Neurosis, what happens to be yours?

Are you Narcoleptic, Needle-phobic, Allergic to Norse?

Are you Narcissistic, Non-Committal, None of the above?

No worries.  I think I’m Neurotic enough.

O is for Onomatopoeia, and for animals that use it.

Like pigs that Oink! Owls that hoot! Apes that Ooo-Ooo it.

Ostriches squawk! Ocelots screech! And the Octopus?

Hmm.  I guess it doesn’t make a sound.  Oops.

P is sometimes loud like in Parapet, Politics, Palm,

Sometimes it’s quiet, like in Psoriasis, Pneumonia, Psalm,

It’s a Pretty awkward letter, that starts Psychology,

And there’s nothing more awkward than a Port-a-Potty.

Q is for Queue, that doesn’t look how it sounds,

I blame it on the fact that it has too many vowels.

Quandary is a Q word I like Quite a bit.

But I don’t want to think of any more, so I Quit.

R is for Random! R is also for Ruth!

Whose name Rhymes with Booth and also Tooth!

Couth! Sooth! Youth! Truth! Sleuth!

That guy who did all the cool animated movies in the 1980s and early 1990’s, Don Bluth!

…what just happened here…?

S is for three letters: S. A. D.

It’s an acronym than can mean Several things.

Social Anxiety Disorder, or Seasonal Affectve Depression.

Either way, it’s SAD, and that concludes this Session.

T is for Turtle, hidden There inside its shell.

Maybe its feeling Timid, but who can really Tell?

Maybe its embarrassed because it moves Too slow.

But it won’t come out and Talk to us, so we’ll never know.

U is for Uvula, or “that hangy-downy thing”

That’s inside your mouth; you can see mine when I sing.

It’s an Unusual word to Utter, I hope you Understand,

I call it “that hangy-downy thing” whenever I possibly can.

V is for Vendetta, though I never saw the flick.

Violence and Vengeance kinda make me sick.

Unless it’s Inigo Montoya seeking to avenge his dad….

Or Dr. Lazarus in Galaxy Quest! By Grapthar's Hammer, that dude was rad!

W is for Where’s Waldo?  Doesn’t anybody know?

And Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?

Wait? Why should We search for these Weird peeps?

They probably joined forces and Won’t be seen for Weeks.

X is for Xenophobe.  What?  That’s not what you thought I’d say?

Did you eXpect me to say that X was for something boring like X-ray?

Or perhaps for Xylophone? Yes, that is usually the way.

But X is for Xenophobe.  I don’t like you.  Go away.

Y is for Yellow Submarine, we all live there.

Yes, we’re all breathing compressed Yellow air.

Yaks are Yodeling in Yiddish, Yeah it’s a strange scene.

I wonder what’s in the Yellow air on the Yellow submarine.

Z is for Zinc, take at the first sign of a cold.

Yeah, that’s really lame, but this book is getting old.

So Zip astride your Zebra, or Zag aboard your Zeppelin.

Or just go to ZZZZZZZ. 

We’ve finally reached

SAA Ep# 52: The Social Awkward Network

Dear Facebook:

It was cute.  The first thirty-seven and a half times, it was adorable.  And by "adorable," I mean "slightly annoying, yet eventually predictable."  You'd get us hooked on whatever new format you'd created, and then just when everything had settled down again and become the new norm, you'd shake things up and introduce something wildly different and force us to relearn a new way of using you.

Sure, it was fun playing with all the new applications.  It was cool being able to instant message while simultaneously checking out that funny pic (that darn Lolrus and his bukkit gets me every time).  It was awesome how you taught us all whole new ways to stalk our friends...and their friends.  But now you have once again rocked our worlds by screwing with the system that enables us to socially network network socially waste time online have an electronic social life.

Not cool, Facebook.  Not cool.  Do you have any idea what kind of anarchy you have caused by not allowing people to easily separate their "top stories" from their "recent stories"?  Do you have any idea how dumb it is to even call them "top stories" to begin with, as if all our lives are nothing but headlines on a neverending news show? 

Neverending New-ews Show.  Ah ah ah, ah ah ah, ah ah ah....  Sorry.  I was having an 80's movie flashback.  Let's move on.

Yeah, Facebook.  You have pretty much caused a rift in the time-space continuum with your latest antics.  Maybe that explains why last night, whilst checking my friends' statuses (stati?), I experienced a shift back to the older, happier days of Facebooking.  For a few blissful, fleeting moments, I could separate my "top stories" from my "recent stories" without the use of a gazbillion lists that, quite frankly, I don't think I'll ever use.  Then, after giving me (and every other Facebook user who was online at the time) a brief taste of classic Facebook joy, you mercilessly reverted back to the new, evil version of Facebook.  You crushed our hopes, Facebook!  Is that your newest application?  Hope crushing!?

And I have to point out that another one of your glitches caused me muy embarrasmento (I can't actually speak Spanish) a few weeks ago.  My power was out, so I proceeded to text my status to Facebook, saying that I was forced to take a candlelight shower.  You proceeded to have a glitch.  The glitch proceeded to cause the status about my taking a shower to repost at least seven times throughout the course of the next twenty-four hours.  I didn't know about it because I didn't have electricity/internet access, but oh, my friends at church all mentioned that I probably shouldn't take so many candlelight showers and then post about it on Facebook.  I don't usually.  I mean, I do take showers, but I don't usually post about them on Facebook.  The one time I did, you had a glitch that let everyone know how clean I am...in the candlelight.  So thanks for that.  Thanks for all the things you do that make my life more awkward. 

Jerkface. 

Jerkfacebook.

What's that you say?  You say that you are free to use, and therefore I have no right to complain?  You say that no one is forcing me to continue to use your service?  Of course you would say that.  But Facebook isn't free.  I don't have to use a credit card in order to virtually "poke" someone, but you know that it costs much more than mere money to use you, don't you, Facebook?  You have gotten me hooked on you like a vampire hooked on his own personal brand of heroin blood.  I am your slave.

So I'm doomed, Facebook.  I can't stop using you.  You had me at "sign in."  You had me at "sign in."

For the socially awkward people like me, Facebook is the only means to having a semblance of a social life.  So the only thing for me to do is to just keep using you, despite the ridiculous changes you've made, despite the other ridiculous changes I hear you're about to make.  Seriously, Facebook, I've heard that, pretty soon, you're going to know me better than I know myself.  And then what?  What changes lie in store for us in the Facebook future?  One day, are you just going to start reading our minds and automatically uploading whatever random things that pop into our heads.  The annoying scroll bar ticker up at the side that never goes away will say: "Facebook has automatically read Ruth Cambpell's mind and updated their (not her, but their, because you obviously think I'm two or more people) status: I like pie."  Yeah.  That's totally creepy, Facebook.  Not only are you enabling us to stalk others with exponentially greater efficiency, but you're also starting to stalk US.  And for the record, I do like pie.  But you already knew that, didn't you?

And while I'm at it, Facebook, your name is stupid.  A book of faces?  You're not a book.  You're a website.  I guess "Facewebsite" is a little too awkward sounding, but then you're getting to be quite the expert on awkward.  And, by the way, everytime I hear the name "Mark Zuckerberg" I start thinking about Zuckerman's Famous Pig from Charlotte's Web.  And then I start thinking about the "Zuckerman's Famous Pig" song from the old Charlotte's Web cartoon.  And then it gets stuck in my head, which is annoying.  And then I remember that Charlotte died.  And I cry.

See what you did, Facebook?  You made me cry.

Why can't I quit you?

Sincerely,

A. R. Campbell

Embarrassing Confession #6: Sharing the Awkwardness

As a socially awkward superhero, I have become quite comfortable with my social awkwardness.  When other people shy away from awkward situations, I often invite them with open arms. 

For instance, I know several women who hate buying, um, shall we say "feminine products" because they don't want the whole world to know that they have basic biological functions.

What do I do?

Whenever I have to buy "feminine products," I purposely look for the youngest male cashier I can find and go to his checkout line.  It's fun to watch him squirm.

...hmm...this could be one of the reasons I'm still single.

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!

Too Busy for an Update...So Here's This...

So I'm really too swamped to update the blog right now. Here's an awkward (and IMO, hilarious--but I'm biased) video of my newest song. The song was just written this weekend (after some of my wonderful friends had an unfortunate and awkward experience), and I put together the video as soon as the song was finished. Enjoy!




(and just a reminder, I love comments...and attention)

SAA Ep. #15: Public Restrooms

I have a feeling I wouldn't have to write anything besides a title for this blog for people to know exactly what I'm talking about. I mean, if you haven't had a socially awkward moment in a public restroom, then you're probably someone pretty special. I mean, you're probably like the Queen of England or someone. Only I doubt the Queen of England has ever HAD to use a public restroom. Doesn't she have like four servants who carry around a little royal outhouse just in case she ever needs to...oh wait, what am I talking about? The Queen of England NEVER poops! Everybody knows that!

(If you are the Queen of England and you are reading my blog, please forgive me for insinuating that you use the bathroom...er...water closet...like the rest of us mere mortals.)

Anyway, part of me wonders why I've waited until now to write about this, since everyone (except for the Queen of England, of course) understands the awkwardness involved in using a public restroom. Then there's another part of me that doesn't want to write this blog because thinking (and writing) about public restrooms sort of gives me the heebie jeebies.

I hate public restrooms. If I can avoid using them, I usually do. If I have to go, but know I'm close enough to home, I'll hold it until I can get there.

First off, I hate public restrooms because of the smell. Public restrooms typically smell like one of three things (or a combination of the three things, which is even worse than one of them):

1) Poop. Warm poop. Warm poop from many different people. Warm poop that lingers in the air, like a stale breeze to remind you that a gazbillion other people used that toilet right before you (but I'm getting ahead of myself).

2) Cheap air freshener that does not get rid of the poop smell, nor does it mask it. Rather, it combines with the poop smell to make a whole new odor combination! Now, instead of just regular type poop smell, you can have your poop smell in five fantastic new poop sensations! Poop Covered Cherries, Fresh Poop, Strawberries and Poop, Vanilla Bean Poo, and, my favorite, New Poop Scent. And really, the names of these stupid air fresheners make me gag as much as the smell. Tahitian Breeze? Really. Did the air freshener manufacturers go to Tahiti and bottle up the smell, transport it to the USA (or England--that's for you Lizzie!), and make it into a public restroom freshener? You want to hear an even worse name? Here it is. The worst name for a bathroom air freshener ever. Ready? Here it is. Mango Tango. Ugh.

3) Bathroom cleaner so strong it will burn your nose and make you cry. The worst smelling bathroom cleaner in the world has to be the stuff that smells like lime candy. It doesn't smell like actual limes, mind you. I used to think I hated limes because all I'd ever had was lime candy. Real limes are awesome. Lime candy tastes like bathroom cleaner smells. I can't eat green suckers to this day because of that bathroom cleaner smell. At least it masks the smell of the poo--sometimes.

I also hate public restrooms because of the lines. I mean, am I the only one who finds it completely awkward to wait in a line to pee? Usually I get crammed in line between two older ladies who like to complain about their bladder control problems and why they should get to go first. I usually let them go first because I'm sick of hearing them complain about their bladder control problems. And then, after it's finally your turn to use the bathroom, you have to face the person who used the toilet right before you. I mean, if this person looks at all sketchy, it really discourages me from using the same toilet she just used. Don't hate--you know you all think the same thing. Or maybe you don't, because maybe it IS just me who hates the idea of using the same toilet as about a gazbillion strangers (but again, getting ahead of myself). And if that person just made a big poo, you can so totally tell it from the sheepish look on her face. So you have to go in that little stall and breathe the total stranger's fresh poop smell that even the crappy air freshener hasn't reached yet.

It's also really awkward when there is no line, because then you have to try to figure out if there's anyone in the bathroom stalls. So you bend down to see if you can see anyone's feet, and then you see all sorts of things you never wanted to see. This is why, when I use the bathroom in public (and in private, just in case you were interested), I make a point of only pulling my pants down as far as they need to go. I don't need "stall peekers" seeing my underwears. FYI, no one wants to see yours either.

So say you have finally found a stall. A stall. A little semi-private rectangle for you to call your own. Here comes the part I hate the most: actually using a toilet that about a gazbillion strangers have already used. I've learned the hard way that you have to make a thorough check of that toilet seat before sitting down. If there are toilet seat covers, I use them. If not, you'd better believe I give that toilet seat a thorough wipe down before sitting down. I know...I sound like a germaphobe. I probably am a germaphobe. I just don't like sitting on other people's pee drops (or poop smears...ewww). It's not my style. If you like it, knock yourself out.

What we need is Japanese Toilets. Those things are awesome. I was in the Narita International Airport in Tokyo where I experienced the most amazing public restroom experience ever. That toilet cleaned itself after every user. Not only that, but it played music. I loved that toilet. It was the cleanest public toilet I'd ever seen, or will ever see.

I mean, most of my readers probably know that I work with kids. I am exposed to a variety of germs in many different forms on a daily basis. I guess some people would think I was immune to any fear of germs, but listen. Just because I CAN hold back my gag reflex while cleaning up diarrhea and vomit and God knows what else from kids who AREN'T my own--it doesn't mean I like it.

So back to the public restroom. When the seat is at least somewhat clean, I use it. Here comes more awkwardness. I am one of the many Americans plagued with...the Shy Bladder. I hate having to pee when someone is in a stall less than two feet away from me...listening. And it's even worse when you've got gas. Because then EVERYBODY hears it. And then it's EVEN WORSE when someone else has gas, because you just feel awkward listening to someone else toot--it always seems the person in the stall next to me has eaten several bean burritos before coming to the restroom. I really wonder how guys deal with the whole urinal issue. I mean, most of the time there is NO privacy there at all. I don't think I could deal.

And then there are the times when there's no toilet paper, so you have to ask a stranger to pass some under the stall to you. And if there's no one else in the bathroom, then you're just stuck there.

And I hate those toilets that flush by themselves. They always flush before I'm ready, and it scares me half to death. Then, when I stand up and AM ready for it to flush, it does nothing. So much for technology. I gotta push the manual button. Pee pee go down the hoooole.

Then there's the awkwardness of having to wash your hands while carrying your purse, jacket, etc. I mean, you COULD set it on the sink, but there's always water all over it (and the floor is completely out of the question unless you want to catch the plague). So you have to try to balance it on your arms while washing your hands. I always end up gett ing water on my shirt. And the soap always smells like rotten cherries. Or like the stuff you use to pave driveways.

By the way, I'm noticing a new trend. Foam soap. Now, in working with kids, I've found one brand--one. One brand of foam soap to rule them all. I love it. GoJo. GoJo is awesome. Why? Because it lets you lather it with water. Dude, this other foam soap doesn't lather. It's already pre-lathered for you. So my question is, if you can't lather it, how in the world do you know if you're getting your hands clean? Foam soap sucks--except for GoJo.

And then there are those annoying air hand dryers. I HATE those things. First of all, I really like having a paper towel to use to open the bathroom door (because let's face it, there are still some people out there who don't wash their hands after using the restroom. I mean--really? Do people LIKE walking around with pee on their hands. I don't get it.). Second, those things never get my hands dry. I always have to press the button like five times to get my hands good and dry. And the hot air makes my skin cry. If there aren't any paper towels, I will often just wipe my hands dry on my pants. That's really just how I feel about it. Then I have wet pants.

Automatic paper towel dispensers are preferable, but even these things are annoying. It's nice when it gives you that one perfectly portioned paper towel, but how often does this actually happen? I mean, usually, it gives me WAY too little, so I have to tear off a sheet, then wave my hand at it again. And again. And then there's the time when it senses some movement from some other dimension and starts dispensing paper towels you never asked for. And you just feel rude if you don't take it. It's like the machine spit it out just for you. So you take the paper towel, even though your hands are completely dry. And it spits out another one, which you feel obligated to take, and thus begins a vicious cycle.

Yeah, so that about covers it. Public restrooms. At least they aren't port-a-potties. I really am too afraid to write a blog about those. *shudder*

I gotta figure out how to become the Queen of England...

A Socially Awkward Christmas

In the Christian preschool classroom where I "teach" (my "teaching" usually consists of telling one and two-year-olds that it's not nice to sit on their friends) there is a bulletin board arrangement of a nativity scene. It's a very nice kid-friendly bulletin board nativity scene, but the more I look at it, the more I get a little freaked out by it. It has all the characters, Mary and Joseph and Baby Jesus, the shepherds (complete with sheep), the wisemen, the angels, and even a camel and donkey for good measure. Now, every one of these characters, except for the wisemen (for some unknown reason--maybe just because they're, ya know, wise or something) have these ridiculously huge happy face smiles plastered on their faces. The shepherds and the sheep have "the smile." Mary and Joseph have "the smile." The donkey and the camel have "the smile." Even the angels and Baby Jesus have "the smile." The more I look at them, the more freaked out I get...so I just try not to look at them. Btw, Baby Jesus also has a little halo around his head, which one of my two-year-olds referred to as "Baby Jesus' hat." Cute.




My roommate has a little nativity scene. She put Christmas lights all around it, and I must admit, it looks very pretty. See:





But the more I look at this nativity scene, the more I think, "Why are Mary, Joseph, and Baby Jesus all holding their hands that way?" Are they trying to look holy (this is the most likely conclusion)? Are they extending their arms in surprise and alarm (I suppose Baby Jesus was like other babies and had the startle reflex, but that doesn't explain Mary and Joseph's behavior)? Are Mary and Joseph playing peek-a-boo with Baby Jesus (wait...that's not in the Bible!)? I'm not sure why they look that way.

Because the way I figure, most representations we have of that first Christmas are probably not very accurate. I mean, this goes beyond the simple idea that the wisemen probably didn't even come into the picture until Jesus was about 2 years old. That song "Silent Night" is beautiful, and quite frankly, I just don't feel like it's Christmas without hearing and singing it--but it's probably not a very accurate song. It probably wasn't a silent night at all.

I blame my attitudes on the fact that when I was 8 years old, I got to play Gladys Herdman in a school production of "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever" (if you haven't read the book by Barbara Robinson, you should--it's only about 100 pages and too cute!). The Herdmans were this family of scruffy kids who bullied everyone else and whom no one liked. They somehow got mixed up in the church's Christmas pageant. The oldest Herdman sister played Mary, and her brother played Joseph. They didn't act like the nativity scene Mary and Joseph. Gladys (that was me) played an angel with a crooked halo and wings (and dirty sneakers showing beneath her angel robe) who went around pushing the shepherds. While I don't think angels go around pushing people, I do think the nativity scene was pretty different from what most good little Christians seem to believe.

Joseph had this task of trying to find his pregnant wife a place to HAVE A BABY. I don't know how many places he went to look for a room. There were no nice clean hospitals with NICUs. There were no state of the art birthing centers. Shoot, Joseph couldn't even dig up a warm bed for Mary. I don't know how many innkeepers he spoke to, and I don't know how long it took him to even find one willing to offer him a stable--but I imagine all of it was fairly awkward. And so the Christ child, the Messiah, the King of Kings and Lord of Lords, God in the flesh had to be born in a barn. Joseph probably wasn't a very good midwife. Mary didn't have an epidural and probably wasn't well-practiced in lamaze. Jesus was probably covered in placenta and baby goo when Mary wrapped him in swaddling clothes and laid him in a manger. She probably breast fed him, too, since formula kinda sorta hadn't been invented yet. I don't know why, but most good little Christians would probably get a little uncomfortable about the idea of Mary breast-feeding their infant Savior.

Let's back this up about nine months. Mary was minding her own business when suddenly this angel comes and tells her she's going to have a baby--and not just any baby--the "Son of God." How awkward would it be to have to tell an angel, "Um, how can this be, because I haven't had 'relations?'"

And then after Mary starts showing, poor Joseph thinks his betrothed cheated on him. He only believes differently because an angel tells him in a dream that this child was concieved of the Holy Spirit. An angel. In a dream. Right. The only way someone wouldn't think this was a crazy story was if they had heard it all their lives--which is the case with most Christians. It's a crazy story, one which I happen to believe--because as the angel told Mary, "Nothing is impossible with God."

By the way, I don't want to get into the wisemen's part of the story too much, but they had angels talk to them in dreams, too. They also followed a star. Most of this behavior wouldn't sit too well with modern Christians.

I do want to talk about the shepherds. Shepherds, well, they took care of sheep. They probably smelled like sheep because they probably lived and slept and ate amongst their sheep. I'll bet they talked to their sheep more than they talked to other people. When they did talk to other people, it probably consisted of talking to other shepherds:

"Hey, Bob, you seen any 'bars' lately?"
"Sure, Fred, I killed me three 'bars' last week. Them be tryin' to eat my sheeps, agin."
"Good lands, Bob. Them 'bars' be a real problum. I done 'kilt' me a 'lyun' a few days ago with my new Red Rider slingyshot."
"A 'lyun', you say? Man, these here fields not be as safe as they used to be."
"Yeah, lucky I got Ol' Blue. She's got a compass in the stock."

Yeah.

Of all the socially awkward people in those times, I'm sure shepherds were near the top of the list. So imagine being a dirty shepherd out in a field, when suddenly an angel appears. Scripture says the shepherds were "sore afraid."

Um, duh.

Let me just put it out there that the images of angels we see around Christmastime (and the rest of the year, too) are probably not very accurate. They aren't scrawny kids with crooked haloes and dirty sneakers beneath their robes, but they also aren't pretty blonde ladies in white dresses with tinsel halos and real faux feather wings and body glitter, either. According to most Biblical descriptions, they were pretty scary looking. For some reason they had like 82 wings to cover various parts of their bodies, and they had a lot of eyes. So, yeah, I'd be afraid if I saw one of those, too. It would be scarier than the creepy bulletin board "smiley" nativity scene...

But the angel's message is pretty amazing. "Fear not, for I bring you good news of great joy which will be for all the people (I'm assuming that means that smelly, socially awkward shepherds are included), for today in the city of David has been born to you a Savior who is Christ the Lord."

That would have been enough to faze me, but the angel continued:

"Oh, and here's a sign. The baby is going to be wrapped in rags and lying in a manger."

"Bob, did that there angul just say that Christ is born and lying in a manger?"
"I think he did, Fred, but that be what our sheeps eat out of!"
"Well, I'll be. Why the angul be tellin' us? If I'd be an angul, I'd be tellin' kings, not shepherds."
"I dunno, but look, there's a lot more of 'em."

I picture a scene in heaven. "Aww, God, why does Gabriel get to go? Gabriel gets all the cool messenger jobs." "God, can't I go, too. I want to tell the shepherds your news." "Me, too, God!" "Please let us go!" "We want to proclaim your glory to the meek shepherds!"

And God smiled and said, "Okay. Everybody get out there and give those shepherds I chose a good show."

And so all the angels, whatever they looked like, were priviledged to tell those simple shepherds, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom His favor rests."

Whenever I read this Bible verse in Luke 2, I always get angry with myself because I opted to take Spanish in college instead of Greek. I can't remember much Spanish beyond "Donde esta bano," so that was a waste (no pun intended), but I also don't know enough Greek to translate the phrase "on earth peace to men on whom His favor rests." Does that mean there's peace on earth for those whom God finds favor with, or does that mean there's peace on earth to men because God's favor is with them? Various translations and commentaries offer various insight into this passage--but really, I've come to the conclusion that as far as I'm concerned, it doesn't greatly matter.

Because God came down to make peace with us, and we can have that peace if we choose it. That's the point of Christmas. We try to clean it up with all our happy and holy nativity scenes. We try to pretty it up by making it seem that Baby Jesus never cried or spit up or had a poopy diaper. But Baby Jesus was probably just like any other baby because God came down in the form of a human--he knew flesh just like the rest of us (even if he never sinned). Jesus had body odor. Jesus probably had diarrhea. Jesus felt pain and joy, and Jesus lived and died. Death just couldn't hold him, because nothing is impossible with God. All things are impossible for us--that's why God had to intervene and make peace with those who had rebelled against him. That's the point of Christmas.

And the first people who got to experience this gift of peace were those dirty, awkward shepherds. And the first resting place for the King was a feeding trough. God has always been in the business of choosing the weak and foolish to shame the strong and wise. That's why I'm able to say, as I did when I was 8 years old with my crooked halo to a packed audience (making my mother cry):

HEY! UNTO YOU A CHILD IS BORN!

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

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

Warning: This might actually be a serious blog.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Socially Awkward Girl: THE VIDEO ADVENTURES

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

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

Just Sayin' Episode #3: The More the Awkwarder

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

Just sayin'.

Embarablast From the Past Episode #4: The Rejection

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LoPB Man followed again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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