The Ruth Fit

There's a word people use to describe me sometimes.  I know they mean it as a compliment, but depending on who says it, sometimes that word really insults me.  It's a word that people use when they really don't know someone, but want to say something nice about them.  And if it were true about me, I guess I wouldn't be that offended by it.  But when someone says this word about me, I know it's NOT true, and it just makes me mad that someone is saying stuff about me that's not true.  Even if it's a nice thing to say.

That word is "sweet." 

Shudder.

"Oh, Ruth, you're so sweet!"  "Ruth is such a sweet person!"  "Ruth?  Yeah, I know her.  She's sweet."  Sweet.  Sweet.  Sweet.

Blech.

Now, sometimes people who know me fairly well still use that word to describe me.  It doesn't make me mad when they say it, because somehow they still believe it about me, even though I know it's not really true.  I think it's because they're great people who can overlook all my orneriness.  

Because the people that know me best know a little secret.  It's a secret my parents referred to as: The Ruth Fit.  

I figure that the Ruth Fit is closely related to the Low Blood Sugar Monster, that sometimes rears its unsweet head when I haven't eaten enough and get crabby.  The Ruth Fit is like the Low Blood Sugar Monster, only more devious, more calculated, and more terrifying.  It doesn't happen often, but when it does, watch out.  The Ruth Fit is actually banned in seven different countries.

Or not, but I haven't visited all the countries yet, so I'm sure it's bound to be banned in a few of them.  

Yeah, so the Ruth Fit was something that originated upon my toddlerhood, when I ceased being an adorable and well-behaved infant and decided that I really was quite fed up with the fact that I couldn't have my way all the time.  I'd throw the greatest fits.  The greatest.  I'd kick my legs and scream and cry for the longest time about the simplest things.  My poor parents.  When kids at work throw fits at me today, I just laugh and say, "Honey, you have no idea who you're dealing with.  I'm a lot more stubborn than you are, and I've had loads more practice."

As I got older the Ruth Fit morphed from screaming and kicking and pouting into more grown-up pouting, not speaking to people, thinking everyone was out to get me, and writing moody poetry.  I was super popular in high school.

Well, now, as a grown up, I still have a lot of moods, but the Ruth Fit doesn't happen very often.  You'd think that would be a good thing.  But I've discovered what has happened is that since the Ruth Fit doesn't happen often anymore, when it DOES happen, it's pretty much one of the greatest forces on earth.

I will describe to you the most recent encounter that included a Ruth Fit.  It was justified, perhaps, and it got results.  But it scared people.  It even scared me.

Before I get into this story, let me first say that I work with customers at one of my jobs.  The vast majority of customers are amazing.  Then you have THAT customer.  I've dealt with THAT customer enough to know that I don't ever want to be THAT customer.  I am, for the most part, extremely patient in dealing with people, usually more apt to blame myself than someone else, and I also don't like confrontation.  So, while I was not blameless in the situation you're about to read, there was a LOT of ridiculous going on that led to the happening of the Ruth Fit.

So I was taking two of the girls I watch to one of those exercise facilities that also has a pool.  I don't want to use any names because I don't really have an issue with the facility, itself.  I don't even have a big issue with the staff.  I think some people were having off days and there was a lot of miscommunication on my part and theirs.  Too many people were trying to handle one situation, and that caused even more issues.  So I'm sure this place is a great place to go exercise and take your family.  But today was not one of the greatest moments in customer service for the staff.

The family of the girls I watch has a membership at this facility.  I should have asked the parents before embarking (they requested that I take the girls there) if I needed a guest pass.  I asked the 12 year old I watch if I needed one, and she said no.  I should have realized then that she probably really didn't know, but we were in a bit of a hurry (we had other errands before the pool).  So that's my fault, too.  But it should have been handled better.

We got to the pool and the 12 year old showed them the family ID card.  They waved us through.  We went and changed clothes in the bathrooms.  Then, as I was leaving the bathroom and walking near to where the entrance was, I almost bumped into a lady who was wearing nicer casual clothes, like she had just stepped out of CATO, with no official ids or anything.  I assumed she was just another mom or whatever.  I said, "Excuse me," for nearly bumping into her, and I walked on.  

The girls and I all got settled and started getting sunscreened up.  I made sure the girls were drenched in sunblock, and then I began the huge task of protecting myself from Mr. Golden Sun.  Now, keep in mind here that I am paler than Olaf from Frozen (the sun is just about as damaging to me, too) and I have to wear like the super greasy gross SPF 100 sunblock.  As I was lathering up my face, the lady I'd almost bumped into came over to us and sweetly said, "I noticed that you came into the pool after I did, and you didn't check in."

I said, "We checked in when we came in."

She said, "Well, you came in after me, and I noticed that you didn't check in."

I said, "We weren't checking in when we passed you.  We were coming from the bathrooms where we had changed because we already checked in."

She looked at me as if she didn't quite believe me, and then she left.  I sprayed on a second coat of the gross sunscreen.  Just to be sure.  Because being pale means you'd better be sure.

I was finishing a short argument with the 9 year old about why we had to wait for sunblock to soak in a little bit before just jumping in the water (it's not my rule, kid, it's the sunblock's rule--read the label), when the lady who had originally checked us in came up and said, "Excuse me, but I think you guys forgot to check in.  I'm going to need you to check in before you can swim."  I'm gonna call her Blondie, not because she was dumb, but because she was blonde.  I don't think she was dumb at all.  She was just trying to do her job, even though she had originally made a mistake (those happen to everyone, it's all good).  But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I looked up, and hovering over Blondie's shoulder was the CATO woman who had spoken with us the first time.  This lady who was impersonating just another patron of the pool was apparently Blondie's boss in disguise.  And I realized that she was actually a higher up employee.  I'mma call her Pool Bouncer, because that's pretty much what she was acting like.

I explained to Blondie that she had been the one to check us in.  Blondie had no memory of that and gave the understandable explanation of, "I see a lot of people come and go.  I can't remember everyone."  I work with customers.  I get that.  I don't blame her.

But frilly blouse-wearing Pool Bouncer was starting to flex her muscles.  She wasn't just hovering over Blondie.  She was hovering over me.

I asked the 12 year old to show the ID again.  They took it with them and went to scan it.  Then they came back and said, "So you're the mom?"

"No," I said.  "I'm the nanny."

  

Apparently, I wasn't supposed to be there without a fancy guest pass.  As far as I knew, I thought I was covered.  And it was a mistake on my part, but an honest one.  But the way Pool Bouncer treated me at that point, you'd think I had robbed a bank.  "You have to PAY to swim here," she said.  "The pool isn't free.  You either need to get a permanent guest pass or have a one-time-use one."  I apologized for not knowing, but pointed out, "I should have been told that when I first entered the pool."  I wasn't trying to throw Blondie under the bus.  It was just the truth of the matter.  

"You have to pay $10," Bouncer said.

Then I shrugged and said,  "Okay I'll just pay the $10." 

I followed Blondie (with Pool Bouncer right on my heels, making sure I didn't bolt) back to the entrance.  I pulled out my debit card.  Bouncer rudely said, "Oh no.  If you want to use a credit card, you have to go inside."

Oh, the Ruth Fit was beginning...

Yeah, I was getting slightly frustrated at this point.  Again, I said, "Why wasn't I told this when I first got here?"  I wasn't too keen on going into the main facility in my swim suit.  

Blondie apologized again, using the somewhat valid "I can't remember everyone," excuse.  Pool Bouncer flexed her muscles.  I said, "Whatever.  I'll just go inside and pay.  Where do I go?"

Blondie pointed in a random direction of some sort.  It was less than helpful.  

I rolled my eyes and said, "You guys do realize I've never been here before, right?"

Pool Bouncer said, "I'll take you."

"Thanks," I said, but not in any way that expressed gratitude.  I told the girls to stay put (and I'm really thankful they're older now, because if this had happened when they were little, I'd have to drag them along).  

Well, Bouncer took me to a very nice reception desk where a very nice lady was standing.  Pool Bouncer started to talk for me, but I had really had enough of her hovering.  I should have been nicer, and maybe things would have gotten resolved sooner, but I resented the fact that she seemed to think I was some sort of criminal. The Ruth Fit was accelerating.  "I've got it.  Thanks," I snapped, dismissing her.

Pool Bouncer's muscles deflated like air being let out of tires.  She backed away slowly, as though I were a grizzly bear.  I took a breath and, as calmly as possible, explained to the very nice lady at the counter that I wanted to pay to use the pool.  Communication broke down a bit then, because she started asking me about my name and address and phone number and next of kin and firstborn child and best friend in kindergarten, and I was like, "Wait, what?"

She said, "I need to register you so I can get payment from you."

Now, in retrospect, after really thinking it over like an occasionally sweet and rational person, and not someone deep in the throes of an escalating Ruth Fit, I think what she wanted to do was to add me to the family's account so that I would be a permanent guest.  All I would have to do in the future would be to enter the pool and pay.  I didn't quite understand that I needed to be on someone's account before I could use the facility, and I thought she was trying to sell me a membership.  ...but I didn't understand it because it wasn't really explained to me.  It wasn't Very Nice Lady's fault.  It was just too many people trying to help me fix a simple situation.  But I didn't get what was going on, and I was just done with the ridiculousness.  I didn't want to give them all my personal info.  I didn't want to register with them.  I wanted to pay to use their stupid pool and get on with my life.

The Ruth Fit me said, "Are. You. Kidding. Me?"

Very Nice Lady put down her ink pen slowly.  "Let me go get a supervisor."

Ruth Fit me said, "Yeah, you go do that."

I was vaguely aware of innocent bystanders gawking at me at that point as I made my scene.  I was this greasy drippy extremely pale lady in a swimsuit, and I was not happy.  In fact, I probably looked like I was ready to kill someone.  But the adrenaline was kicking in, and suddenly I didn't feel guilty anymore that I had left their nice expensive-looking counter coated in SPF 100.  Normally something like that would cause me to have a guilt trip for weeks.

Supervisor came out.  Good ol' Soups!  She'd fix everything.

Only...no.

I explained to her my situation, which, if you can tell from all that I wrote above, really was quite cray-cray.  I explained that I don't like being mean to people, and that I deal with customers all the time, too, and rarely get like this.  But I also explained that I was just really tired of being given the run around over something as simple as trying to take kids to the pool.

Did she utilize her supervisor status to get to the bottom of what was going on.  Did she try to figure out where the miscommunication was?  Did she even talk to ANY of the people that I had previously talked to in order to see why I was so frustrated?  No.

She simply smiled sweetly, and said:

"Maybe you could be a little bit nicer."

"Maybe you could be a little bit nicer."

"Maybe you could be a little bit nicer."

"Maybe you could be a little bit nicer."

"...little bit nicer...."

Say what?!

ABORT! ABORT! ABORT!

That's when the Ruth Fit reached full meltdown mode.

I think the face I gave her in response looked a little something like this:

I tried to go to the pool once.  It was awful.

So she said, "You know, you could always just leave, too."

Oh, I work with customers.  I know it's perfectly fine to THINK that, but it's NOT okay to say that unless you've got a repeat offender who has been a constant pain (or otherwise someone who just crosses the line with completely inappropriate behavior--I was not there yet).  But maybe the Ruth Fit was scarier than I realized.

So I said, "Yeah, I'm really thinking that leaving sounds like a GREAT idea."  And then I think I gave her THIS face.

Because I AM the human version of Grumpy Cat

That's when she actually took a step backwards, changed her tone completely, and said, "How about I just give you a guest pass today, free of charge?"  She looked uncertain for a moment, and added a respectful, fearful, "Ma'am."

I raised an angry eyebrow and said, "I guess that will work, too."

She didn't make eye contact with me as she filled it out and meekly told me I needed to put an emergency contact on it.  I took the guest pass back to Blondie, saying, "Do I need to leave this with you while I go look up a phone number for the emergency contact?

Blondie didn't make eye contact with me as she said, "No!  No.  We...we trust you."

Darn right you do.

Pool Bouncer sat at a desk behind Blondie's counter, still looking utterly deflated and defeated.  She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, then looked away quickly when she realized I saw her peeking.

Because that's what full-blown grown-up Ruth Fits do to people.

After all of that, while lounging in the pool, the 12 year old asked me, "So, did you have to pay the $10?"

I said, "Well, I tried to, but they gave me a hard time about that.  Then I accidentally threw a Ruth Fit, and they gave me a free pass for today."

She said, "Wow, you should do that all the time and get free stuff."

"No," I said.  "No.  Because first, I have vowed only to use my powers for good.  And second, the Ruth Fit is very powerful and should only be used with great responsibility, and in time of great need.  The Ruth Fit is more effective when it is only used sparingly, when the time is right."

The 12 year old nodded, impressed by my wisdom.  Either that or she just wanted me to stop talking.

And maybe that encounter was a time of great need, and maybe it wasn't.  But I do believe that the people at that facility will think twice before they go around willy-nilly accusing people of sneaking into the pool again.

Remember, don't make me angry.  You won't like me when I'm angry.  Unless you're watching from afar, because I bet that stuff was hilarious.

A Very Scientific Visit to the Shire

Today, I went on an adventure.  It was epic.  It happened in the Shire, where I was entrusted with the care of two hobbit children.  Only it was more like in a cul-de-sac in a neighborhood.  But still...hobbits.

Well, it's hard for me to really judge actual hobbits, since I'm pretty short myself.  But I'm really pretty sure these younglings are hobbits.  I would like you to picture what they look like (without actually showing you a picture).  Picture in your head the most adorable brown-eyed, brown curly haired five year old boy in the world.  In the world.  Now multiply that by 20.

His sister?  She has blue blue eyes and the cutest little golden ringlet curls that would make Rosie Cotton want to pull out her own hair in envy.  And I wish she would.  Try putting ribbons in THAT, Rosie Cotton, and see if Samwise Gamgee would still want to marry you.

By the way, the hobbit boy child said I could call him Sam.  So that's what I'll call him in this blog.  And the girl--okay, I guess I'll call her Rosie.  Cuz if Samwise fell in love with this little doll, I really couldn't blame him.

Anyway, this adventure to the Shire began with the building of a hobbit house.  I knew that we would be building a hobbit house, because I accidentally promised Sam a hobbit house.

Cuz if you see an adorable five-year-old hobbit boy child in the hallways at preschool, and you tell adorable five-year-old hobbit boy child, jokingly, that you want to take him home with you, and if adorable five-year-old hobbit boy child says, "OKAY! Let's go," and you find yourself having to backtrack and think of all the reasons why adorable five-year-old hobbit boy child can't come home with you, and if you tell adorable five-year-old hobbit boy child that you don't have room for him, so he'd have to sleep in the bathtub, then adorable five-year-old hobbit boy child genius might say, "Well, then build me a house so I can stay with you."  And when you look in the big brown eyes of adorable five-year-old hobbit boy child, there's little you can do besides say, "Absolutely."

And then for the next three months, adorable five-year-old hobbit boy child will remind you that you promised to build a house with him.  A hobbit house.  With a blue door and a yellow door.

We didn't build a hobbit house with a blue door and a yellow door, but we took over Sam's driveway to build a hobbit house of epic proportions.

Only, it wasn't really a hobbit house.  It was a castle.  Only it wasn't really a castle.  It was a wall to ward off the evil Dragons.  Because when you're a hobbit child, imaginary buildings can be whatever you want whenever you want.  And regarding the wall to ward off evil Dragons, Sam knew without me having to tell him that there are both evil Dragons and good Dragons.  That's because Sam is awesome.  Sam also liked using the word awesome ALMOST as much as I did.  Because he's awesome.

Well, the neighbor's kid came over and somehow the hobbit house/castle/evil Dragon prevention wall fell over.  We tried to build it again, but somehow Sam wasn't the biggest fan of being inside a fortress that simply warded off the scented bubbles his little sister was blowing.

So we went to play with playdough.  I made snails.  According to Sam, they were the most amazingly awesome epic playdough snails he'd ever seen.  I'm inclined to agree

Sam made a monster truck/race car/rocket ship/war machine.  With a horn on top.  It was also awesome and good.

Rosie made a mess.

Sam asked me how old I was.  I told him I was "this many," and held up all my fingers three times, then added a four, because that's how many I am.  He said, "TEN?"  I said, "No."  Again, I held up ALL my fingers three times, then held up four.  He said, "TWENTY-FOUR?!?"  I said, "No."  Again, I held up all of my fingers three times, then held up four.  He said, "FOURTEEN MILLION?!?"  I said, "Yes."

This is why I am not a math teacher.

I am reminded of this video, which you should watch after you finish reading this post.  And then you should watch all the other videos that Bored Shorts TV has ever made in the history of ever.  You'll thank me later.




Then Rosie, Sam ,and I went into the garage to color.  That's when SCIENCE happened.  Sam was drawing me a flower.  He wouldn't let me look at it until it was done, because, according to him, it was an awesome magical rainbow flower that was so beautiful it would make me cry.

Indeed

So I was looking away from his picture, asking Rosie to name her colors.

Just then, an evil Dragon flew over head.  And Rosie, aged three, plainly said, "What?  It's thunder!  I'm freaking out, here!"

I assured her that it wasn't thunder.  She said, "You're right.  It's a BEAUTIFUL day outside."  But she still wanted to know what was making the growly sound overhead.  She was still freaking out.

It wasn't ACTUALLY an evil Dragon.  It was actually a nice jet plane.  So I told them that it was just a plane, and if they waved really hard, the people in the airplane might see them and feel happy.  So we all waved at the sky like fools.

As if that wasn't enough SCIENCE for them, Sam asked me why the jet noise was so loud and kept going for so long.

I said, "Well, sound travels really really fast.  And when sound travels really fast, it doesn't like anything to travel faster than it.  So when the jet plane gets SO FAST that it flies FASTER THAN SOUND, sound gets REALLY angry and just shouts 'BOOM!'"

Rosie and Sam were both like, "Whoa."

This is why I am not a science teacher.

The day ended with a Dragon hunt (a good Dragon hunt--we were saving the good Dragons from the evil ones), in which Sam became a secret agent (who, of his own volition, lifted up his sunglasses and winked at me), Rosie became an elf, and I became a good ogre/spy/fairy/elf who is also a ninja.  And we went through mystical portals and caves and dungeons, until our quest ended with the great battle of Sam's Driveway.  Sam led the charge, so Rosie and I lifted our imaginary swords and ran down the hill, defeating all the evil Dragons and saving all the good ones.

Afterwards, Sam, the mighty hero, got hugs, high fives, and fist bumps from who he described to be the "two pretty princesses," and we all went in for some yogurt.

And also, we rolled up in blankets and pretended to be caterpillars.  Then we were all butterflies.  Then we were all caterpillars again, because that's how we roll in the Shire.  Literally.  ...we roll in blankets.  ...as caterpillars.  ...that's how we roll.

You know, I'm not a kid anymore.  I'm all my fingers three times plus four, but there's something amazing about getting to hang out with hobbit children.  You remember how to be a hobbit child, yourself.  I can almost guarantee that my day was more epic than yours, even if I didn't really go to the Shire.  But I kinda sorta did.

Be jealous.

Embarrassing Confession #7: Friends in Low Places

After only a few minutes of consideration (all that was needed), I have come to the conclusion that the vast majority of my friends are under the age of 7.

At least I'm actually taller than most of them.

I'm like...Gigantor!  RAR!

SAA Ep. # 29: Adventures in...Child Care Professionaling?

Before I go any further, let's get one thing straight.  I am NOT a babysitter.  I am a child care provider.  A child care professional, if you will.  What does that mean? 

It means I'm a glorified babysitter.

If you had told me eleven years ago that I would be working in childcare for a living, I would have laughed and laughed at you.  It wasn't that I hated kids, but I wasn't aware that I liked them very much.  I only realized I liked them due to a coincidence.  ...if you believe in coincidences, which I don't.

I spent five summers of my life working at Ridgecrest Baptist Conference Center.  I knew about this place because my dad worked there way back in the 60's, and my sister worked there one summer in the late 90's.  I had never had a job before (and I was 20 years old...pathetic?  Yes.), so I figured I'd give it a shot.  The first summer, they stuck me in the laundry department.  So I folded towels and sheets for an entire summer, and for some odd reason, I liked it.  So when the next summer rolled around, I decided to go back and I requested the laundry department again.

Imagine my surprise when I got a phone call from a friendly volunteer lady asking me what size t-shirt I would need for the preschool department.  I was like, "Um, I didn't know I was going to be in the preschool department.  I don't really like kids.  Can I be in laundry again?"  But she was just a friendly volunteer lady who didn't know anything about it, so I figured I'd just suck it up for a summer and work with kids.

But that summer, to my amazement, I found out I really liked kids.  I found out that they were pretty much awesome.  And I went back to that summer preschool program three times after that. 

If you count those summers and all the odd childcare jobs I've had, including the almost five years of being a nanny (for three different families) and the over five year gig at the drop-in childcare center, I've been a child care professional for about a decade.

Wow.

And now that I think about it, a person of my particular talents is probably pretty well equipped to be a childcare professional.  I can sing like Mary Poppins and/or Maria from the Sound of Music (I can't magically jump into chalk sidewalk pictures or make playclothes out of curtains, but nobody's perfect...except for Mary Poppins).  I can accurately mimic the sounds of a chicken, a cat, a dog, a frog, a duck, an elephant, a horse, AND a velociraptor (my version of Old McDonald is the stuff of legend).   I can make practically anything out of fuse beads.  Oh, and I'm BFFs with Santa Claus AND the Easter Bunny, which isn't a talent, per se, but it's still pretty cool to a five year old.

But over the years, I've learned some things.  I've learned that kids are full more bodily fluids than I even knew existed, and I've learned that I actually DO have the ability to hold back my gag reflex long enough to clean them up (most of the time).  I've learned that "Tom and Jerry" has magical powers to keep kids of all ages entertained for more than ten minutes.  I've learned that the pizza man being late with his delivery IS a life or death situation.  I've learned that kids say the most hilarious things ever.  I've learned that strong-willed children are often my favorites (yes, I have favorites)...probably because I'm strong-willed, too.

There have been scary things to happen to me in childcare.  Like the time I went to the bathroom and heard the girls I watch say, "What will happen if we throw it down the stairs?"  I'm stuck on the potty (yes, I call it a potty), unable to move, wondering what they're trying to throw down the stairs.  Their mother's vase?  The television set?  The betta fish?  Their little sister?  Turns out, it was just a hacky sack...but I had a mini panic attack before I was able to figure that out.

Let me be honest, here.  I work three (or four, if you count MOPS...or five if you count the random babysitting jobs I sometimes do) jobs in the childcare field.  That gets stressful.  That gets tiring.  Sometimes, it just gets downright old.

But despite all the stress and frustration that comes with taking care of kids, I really am grateful to have so many wonderful kids (and parents) in my life.  The kids at the preschool where I teach (and by teach, I have to admit that my skills are limited to shapes, numbers, colors, animal noises, and "It isn't nice to sit on your friends") just had a music/arts program this past week.  After my class did their portion of the program (they're all 2 or younger, so they basically just stood on stage while I prayed they wouldn't cry...or fall off the stage), I just went into the audience and watched the other kids sing and dance.  I was suddenly just overwhelmed with the knowledge that God's given me the opportunity to love so many kids.

Yes, I would like to eventually be able to support myself just with my writing.  I'd love to be able to call myself a full-time author.  Right now, though, I'm very much enjoying my life with all these fantastic kids.  I get to help shape these little lives, and that's a huge responsibility.  It's also a great joy.

If I ever do get to the point where I can quit my jobs and just write for a living, I have a feeling I'll miss working with kids.  But for now, I'm just loving my life and being VERY grateful for "Tom and Jerry."

Public Service Announcement: How to Stay Single in Ten Easy Steps

Meet Ruth.

Ruth is single.

How has a gorgeous, talented, and smart (not to mention, humble) young woman like Ruth remained single for all these years?

Hmmm....that's a mystery...

Ah, Ruth has remained single because she has learned the secrets--

The secrets to staying single!

She's going to share these secrets with you...in TEN EASY STEPS!

STEP ONE: Work as much as humanly possible.

Working three or more jobs makes it nearly impossible to have a social or dating life. If you find that you're working all the time and STILL have time for dating, try writing a novel. That will take away every last iota of your free time, making it impossible for you to find time for dating. For added singleness insurance, try working with kids. That way, you get that haggard, unattractive "my kids are driving me crazy" look without actually being a parent.

STEP TWO: Wear a ring that looks suspiciously like a wedding band near (or even on) your left ring finger.

Whether it's a "Purity Ring" or just some weird LOTR obsession, wearing a wedding-band-ish ring will confuse people enough to virtually guarantee your continual singleness. Also, biting your nails and having horrendously dry skin probably helps, too. No one wants to hold THAT unmanicured monstrosity!

STEP THREE: Surround yourself with children so that everyone, including single men/women, will assume you're a mommy/daddy.

(I don't have a cutesy pic for this step because I'm NOT a mommy and don't feel comfortable posting any of the MANY pictures I have of me with someone else's kids.)

If you want to appear as unattractive as possible to all eligible suitors, make sure you always have kids with you. If you aren't a child care provider by trade or don't have any kids to borrow, go rent some kids. There are kid rental places now, right?

And always make sure your facebook profile pic is of you and a kid that looks exactly like you.

STEP FOUR: Don't have mad cooking skills.

A lack of mad cooking skills makes you less desirable. 'Nuff said.

STEP FIVE: Have an imaginary boyfriend/girlfriend.

Whether you're the Captain Jack Sparrow type, the Edward Cullen type, or I don't know...whatever fictional female the boys are into these days... having a fictional significant other makes real potential significant others shy away. I mean, most eligible men and women know that they can't compete with the fictional perfection of a fictional person, so they just give up. And you remain single.

STEP SIX: Be a Grammar Nazi!

Because EVERYONE loves a Grammar Nazi...right? Right? Oh.

STEP SEVEN: Make friends with creatures that usually only exist in fantasy.

People will think you're crazy. Crazy people don't get dates as often as sane people, or so I have heard. I wouldn't know. I've never been sane.

STEP EIGHT: Do weird stuff in public for no apparent reason.

While some people actually appreciate weirdness in other people, it's probably not the best way to make a first impression on any single people who might be watching.

STEP NINE: Actually WANT to get married.

In my experience, nothing scares a single guy more than a woman who wants to get married. So just want to get married, and you'll scare away every single guy within a 100 mile radius.

STEP TEN: Be a socially awkward super hero.

Meh. Works for me.

Just Sayin' Ep. #4: Turning Thirty-Something

I'm not sure how someone as socially awkward as I am got SO many AMAZING friends, but this has been an awesome birthday. I'm so thankful for all the friends, family, kids, etc. in my life who have made this day EVEN better. I've had a fantastic day!

Being thirty-something isn't so bad after all.

Just sayin'.

SSA Episode #13: The Woman Who Saved Valentine's Day

It's Socially Awkward Adventure #13! I hope none of my readers have triskaidekaphobia. Yes. I had to look up the correct spelling for that. No, that's not what this blog is about.

Have you ever wanted to do something nice for someone (or a group of people), but you lose track of time and find yourself scrambling at the last minute, and by the time you realize that it's too late to accomplish this nice thing, you kind of wish you hadn't thought of doing this nice thing in the first place?

If you could understand what I just wrote, I hope you can answer "No, Ruth. That's just you." Yes, the above scenario is something I have dealt with time and time again. Like, I get this idea that I'm going to make guacamole for a party (seriously...I make awesome guacamole. It's so good I call it "ROCKamole"), then I realize at the last minute that I don't have any avocados, and the only ones I can find in the stores are either too mushy or too hard, and then when I FINALLY find some ripe ones after going to four different stores, I realize I don't have at least an hour and a half to make this guacamole.

Apparently, this blog has a theme today, and this theme is run-on sentences...but I digress...

This post is not about Valentine's Day. Well, it is, but only indirectly. Okay, so it's about Valentine's Day. I mean, sort of...

So recently I saw this card for single people that said something stupid like, "I believe there is someone for everyone out there, and one day you will find yours. Until then, know that I love you and lots of other people do too." Basically, what that says to me is, "Here's a card so you won't feel lonely while the rest of us married people are at home snuggling with our spouses. Enjoy!"

The thing is, I'm really NOT bummed about Valentine's Day at all. Not at all. I haven't been for several years...and I've been single for several years. In fact, I've only been "with" someone for one Valentine's Day out of my whole life. But I'm not into that whole "Single Awareness Day" or whatever. It's Valentine's Day. I love Valentine's Day! Do you want to know why?

It's because I love kids. I mean, maybe if I had a significant other, I might just think Valentine's Day was all about showing my love to him. But...somehow I doubt it. I mean, all these froo froo hearts and flowers just don't make me feel romantic. They make me feel cutesy. Kids are good with cutesy.

I love getting those perforated valentine's cards to give to the kids in my life. I love putting together Valentine packages for my nieces and nephew. I love putting heart stickers all over the place. I love reading conversation hearts and just being flat out sickeningly adorable. I love Valentine's Day. And the greatest joy to me every Valentine's Day is giving cards/presents to the kids I love.

So...

Late last night I got this idea that I wanted to get individually wrapped rice krispies treats for the kids in my preschool class. We were having a Valentine's party today, so I thought it might be a nice gesture. I figured I had PLENTY of time to run out in the morning and get some rice krispies treats from CVS. Only CVS didn't seem to have any rice krispies treats--at least not that I could see. And CVS is pretty hopping on random Thursday mornings, especially when the ground is covered with a very light dusting of snow that will have completely melted away by noon--because in the South, if there's snow, that means everyone needs milk and bread immediately and at the same time, or the world will explode in a rainbow of heart-shaped confetti. So I couldn't ask anyone where the rice krispies treats were because all the employees were busy helping people find bread and milk that didn't seem to exist anymore.

No big deal. I had a plan B! There is a grocery store right around the corner from where I work. So I went there. I was still a few minutes ahead of schedule. It was awesome. I'd run in, find the rice krispies treats, and self-check my way out of there to arrive on time to work in a blaze of rice krispies treats glory. Only I couldn't seem to find the rice krispies treats at this store, either. I was browsing the snack aisle (a logical place to find...ya know...snacks), when I ran into one of the minister's wives from my church. I thought she was amazing before, but listen to this:

She greeted me. I explained my dilemma. She said she thought that the rice krispies treats should be with the snacks, too (logical place, that's all I'm saying). Well, I had to run because by this time I was late for work, so I figured the rice krispies treats were just not meant to be.

Alas. My quest for the rice krispies treats had come to an end. I had failed.

But, I say again, listen to this...(or read this...because it's written and not spoken...whatever...)

As soon as I got to work, I got a phone call from the minister's wife. She had found the rice krispies treats and was bringing me a box! I mean, she was like a super hero. The day was saved! She saved Valentine's Day!

You know how there are all those stupid movies out there about somebody saving Christmas? Ernest Saves Christmas. Noddy Saves Christmas (who's Noddy? Idk.) Elmo Saves Christmas. Dora Saves Christmas. Diego Saves Christmas (wasn't Dora enough?? Apparently not). Inspector Gadget Saves Christmas (I might actually watch that one). Rainbow Brite Saves Christmas. Felix the Cat Saves Christmas. Mater Saves Christmas. Your Mom saves Christmas (I might have made up that last one). Me thinks I should do a blog on "...saves Christmas" movies. Ya know...like sometime around Christmas...because right now it's around Valentine's Day...

Yeah, so anyway, they should make a movie about the lady who brought me rice krispies treats. They should call it "The Woman Who Saved Valentine's Day." I'd watch it.

I'd watch it because I lived it.

...and I still have half a box of rice krispies treats to prove it.