SAA Ep. #41: Not Remembering Having Met People

I took the girls I watch to the pool today.  Since I had cleverly packed a bag full of my swimming stuff and cleverly forgotten it and left it on my bed in my apartment, I was not able to go swimming with them.  So I sat nicely shaded at one of those awesome tables with a huge umbrella and still somehow managed to get a sunburn.

I'd been there about twenty minutes when one of the moms from the neighborhood came up and started talking to me as if she'd known me my entire life.  "I saw you over here and wanted to come see how you were doing."

Now, usually I'm terrible with names, but good with faces.  I've gone to the same church for five and a half years.  I've sung in the choir for about four of those years.  There are still names of people in the choir that I just don't know.  There are many more people in the church whose names I just don't know.  But I know their faces.  If I've met someone even once, I usually at least remember the person's face.  This person?  Well, I had no idea who she was.  I mean, she WAS wearing sunglasses, so I guess that might have thrown me a little.  As she started talking, I just figured that she was someone I'd met once or twice and maybe shared a "gee aren't these kids so cute" moment.

But then this lady asked me a question that led me to believe that we've had more than just a superficial conversation.  As I was trying to figure out who she was, she asked me, "So how is your book going?"

I looked down at my hands, at the book that I was reading, wondering if she were possibly talking about that.  But no.  She had that annoying look that accompanies every person who asks that dreaded question, "How is your book going?"

I kind of made one of those "so-so" hand gestures and managed a weak smile.  She said something else before departing.  I can't remember what it was.  I was too busy trying to figure out when I'd had a conversation with her about the fact that I write books.  I mean, I just don't go up to strangers and say, "Hi!  My name is Ruth!  I write books!  I like Dragons!  My second favorite color is maroon!  I'm obsessed with Rich Mullins!  My sister once got bitten by a muskrat!  Be my best friend EVER!"  Maybe if I did, I'd have more friends, but somehow I doubt it.  There is a reason someone like me was born inside a shell.  The figurative kind--not the candy coated kind.  I think being an M&M would be slightly problematic for me.  I am reminded of Spaceballs when "Pizza the Hutt" ate himself to death.  If I were an M&M, my fate would be similar.

AND...back to my story.

The only thing I can figure is that either I was completely out of it when I did meet and speak with this person, or I really have only had surface level conversations with her and other people have been talking to her about me behind my back.  I don't really like to think about people talking about me because 1) my writing and I aren't cool enough to be the subject of almost total strangers' conversations and 2) that kind of thinking makes me seem paranoid--and I'm finally just now starting to get used to the idea that "THEY" probably aren't all out to get me.

But then there was this one time in college where I walked into the office of my new advisor, an English professor.  I never had the privilege of taking this lady's class, and I'd never spoken to her before.  But I sat down at her desk and the first words out of her mouth were, "So I hear you're a wonderful writer."  Apparently the English department HAD been talking about me.  And "THEY" might have even been out to get me. 

So I'm really not sure what happened, but apparently I meet people and then forget about it later.  Maybe I have amnesia.  Maybe "THEY" came and got me and erased my memory of having met this person.  How many other people have "THEY" made me forget?  What other things have "THEY" done to me?

I'mma go hide in my room now...

...and put tin foil on my head...

...just for good measure...

SAA Ep. #26: Book Withdrawal

I was going to write a blog a couple of nights ago, but I couldn't.  I couldn't function enough to form a three word sentence, let alone write an entire blog.  My hands were shaking.  I couldn't think clearly.  All I could do was sit on the floor, rocking back and forth, staring at the phone.  I was waiting for a phone call.  I was waiting for the phone call that would end my misery.  I was waiting for that smooth, automated voice to tell me that my next fix was ready...

...I was waiting for a call from the library to let me know the book I'd reserved was waiting for me.

I made the mistake of reading a book (The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins--I highly recommend it, but only if you have immediate access to the sequels) last week without making sure the sequel was readily available.  I finished the first book, only to discover that not only was it extremely well-written and enticing, but it also ended on a cliffhanger (of sorts)!!!!  So I immediately went to reserve the sequel, and was dismayed to find that I was #79 on the waiting list.  Just to be safe, when I reserved the sequel, I also reserved the sequel to the sequel.  When the library finally called, guess which book was ready?  The sequel?  No.  The sequel to the sequel.

I'm still waiting for the sequel.  Anxiously, anxiously awaiting the sequel...  I have bitten off all of my fingernails.

And I'm wondering how in the world I survived waiting for three out of the seven Harry Potter books to come out (book four was still only available in hardcover when I started that addiction).  I do remember rereading the books, watching the first movie (it had just come out) over and over.  I remember reading the fan-theory websites, trying to figure out what was going to happen to poor Harry.  Would he live?  Would he die?  Would Voldemort rule the world?  Would Ron and Hermione ever figure out they were supposed to get married and have red-haired babies?  Those things tided me over.

This time, there is no movie (it's set to come out sometime next year, though!).  I can't read fansites without reading spoilers.  So, there's only that first book.  That first wonderful, addicting book.  Only now it mocks me.  It mocks me because it's over, and I'm left wondering what's going to happen to the characters, who's going to end up with who, if everyone is going to live until the end...

Things have gotten better.  I'm no longer breaking out in cold sweats, muttering the main character's names in my sleep.  But if the library doesn't call me soon, I might have to go do something desperate.  I might...I might...visit...a book dealer...

Please someone out there tell me they can relate to this.  I need to know I'm not the only one nerdy enough to need a book fix!  Have any of you ever suffered from book withdrawal?