Fun With Autocorrect Ep. 2

Just for kicks, sometimes I like to Swype out adventures and not correct the autocorrect...you know, just to see what happens. Here we go!

Walking The New Scary Trail

Being as rubber is ruin, but I'm not one to Rt new things very often. Do when I rub, I like to rib the same paths over and over. My favorite places to run ate up and down a nearby street, out just sound and sorry the mile loop at a park.

But in the pat few months, a new ridiculously long ruining trail had opened yo near whet I line. Lots of my running friends have tagged about it, so I figures I'd give it a Rt. But I have to admit, I was a little nevis. I don't like new things, being socially weekend and all. 

In fact, I might not have tried out ie at all if it weren't for the fact that the trial opens up at the soccer complex where the girls I watch have soccer practice. I took one of the girls I've night and figured I mint ad well walk the trial during get ninety mine practice.

After doing the fourteen year pork of at her field, I made may way to the trail. It was light it, but not stingy. It was one if those spooky overcast hats that make you feel as thought you were in a horror mine.  Before I even got to the trail, I felt crepes out.

I started walking the trail, trying to fitter out the mile markings. It was not vet easy. I tried memorizing kamala, like signs and Ricks and random tank things.

About a quarter mile in, I saw an overlord that had a sign sniff beavers. It said that beavers livers in the area automating the trail, and even tooth they mainly titled at night, I might see stoke fallen tees out fans, evidence if the beavers.

So I stared looking door breeders and I walked. Mostly I just saw birds and squirrels and scary looking runner dudes that could have killed me if tiger decided that works be mute fun than running.

I didn't like how remote the trail seemed on that spooky, sunless day. I always feel safe if I fugees um in screaming distance of other Perle. In the two, only the scary runners, the squirrels, the hurts, and the elusive braces could hear me.

That want enough to make NE feel safe.

Plus, I was listening to Mt ruining app admit zombies, which always makes ruining mite freaky dink.

Well, I finally decided to walk back to the cover complex, still crepes it's by the remit trail, when ourof the Crowder of my err, I saw something mice in the first! Was it a scary runner murdered dude? Was it a zombie? Was it a cranky pants squirrel?

No. It was a brave. It saw me and scanners array, but it was dorky as beaver.

In the way back to the complex, I finally figured air the mile markets, at least somewhat. I figured if try that trail out again assert all.

The next tinge I walked it, the sun was shining. There ware less scary ruining dudes and lots of other waffling and ruining ladies. There were squirrels and birds, but no beavers.

Aww.

I guess the question still relations. If e call then beavers, why Sony three brave?

SAA Ep. #73: The Grown Up Birfday

I turned another year older the other day. Well, actually, I just turned another day older, but another number was added to my age, making it seem as if an entire year had passed while I peacefully slept. I went to bed one night as a young, beautiful, talented, humble girl of 32.  I woke up the next morning and was suddenly the same age Jesus was when He died.

Birthdays can be real jerks.

I never saw them like that as a kid. I guess getting older was cool back then, and the day really was all about me. The clearest birthday in my memory was my sixth birthday. I wore this wonderfully awful pink 80s sweatsuit. I wore it to match what I knew I would get at school. I had, in fact, been waiting for it all year. The Birthday Crown.

I think I hear angels singing, even after all these years.

Yeah, so the Birthday Crown was a silly hat made out of construction paper. But to a kindergartener, it was serious bidizness. Which rappers have led me to believe is more serious than regular type business.

I think the Birthday Crown meant even more to me than it did to other kindergartners. My mom had just had another baby (a brother, and not the little sister I wanted) four months prior to my sixth birthday, which kind of forever sealed my fate as the attention-seeking middle child. You'd better believe that Birthday Crown was important.

I asked for a pink one, even though the weary-looking TA already had pink paper waiting to go. I'm pretty sure I ruined pink for that lady forever. She probably still gets nervous around bottles of pepto bismal, and wakes up from nightmares about bubble gum monsters.

Yeah, she wrote my name and age on the Birthday Crown. She measured it to my head and secured it with scotch tape. ...and, just like that, it was on like Diddy Kong.

I don't actually know what that last phrase even means.

Anyway, I wore that stupid paper crown all day. All. Day. I wore it to the cafeteria, knowing that the lunch ladies would gush over me as they served me a rectangular pizza-like substance. And they did. My Birthday Crown meant that everyone would know it was my special day. I did princess waves. I batted my eyelashes. It was all about me, as children are led to believe birthdays should be.

Fast-forward 19 years. I got dumped on my 25th birthday. Uh...let's move on...

Birthdays as a grown up just aren't as cool as kid birthdays. Not only is getting older suddenly not fun anymore, but we can't stop the world and make it all about us anymore.

I had to go to work on my birthday-on a Monday, no less. And no one remembered. No one brought me a cupcake or anything  :-(. So I went about my business, watching kids as if it were any other day. I must admit, I thought about making myself a pink Birthday Crown so everyone would see the importance of my special day, but for whatever reason, acceptable six-year-old behavior is frowned upon when you're 33.

My car payment was due on my birthday. I mean, shouldn't banks just let me have a month "on the house" when it's my birthday? If I were a six year old, I bet they would. But I've never seen a six year old take out a tricycle loan....

I was also sick on my birthday. A cold. A tummy ache. Good job, Birthday Fairies. I asked for a David Tennant and a T.A.R.D.I.S.  for my birthday. You give me snot. Not what I asked for. You fail, Birthday Fairies. 

Well, I decided I wanted pancakes for my birthday. Some people have this rule that birthday calories don't count. It would be nice if that were true, but I'm pretty sure the scale doesn't distinguish between birthday calories and regular calories. There would be weight related consequences if I ate a whole cake on my birthday. Calories are another grown up birthday downer.

Anyway, because I still wanted birthday pancakes, regardless of calories, I invited a bunch of people over to IHOP. I figured out if there was going to be any birthday awesomeness, I'd have to generate it for myself. When I was a kid, birthday awesomeness just happened. Was it the Birthday Fairies? Was it Mom and Dad? Was it that everything just seemed more awesome when I was a kid? Idk. Birthdays just aren't as easy as they used to be.

I mean, I had to drive myself to IHOP. On my birthday. I had to observe the speed limit and obey traffic laws, because I'm pretty sure that police officers still expect you NOT to go 80 in a 55 zone on your birthday. But you know what? Even though I was careful to obey traffic laws and not get a birthday ticket (Aww, Mr. Police Man, you shouldn't have!), I still got rear ended. On my birthday.

I was sitting at a stoplight, minding my own birthday bidizness, and suddenly "BANG!" I just shook my head, thinking about how my rear bumper had probably just gone the way of its fathers.

The Birthday Fairies were kind enough to grant me some grace with that. The lady who rear ended me was a mess. Her foot had slipped off the brake. She was stressed out. She was nearly in tears. The amazing thing was, neither one of our cars were damaged. At all. I still had a bumper. It wasn't even scratched (well, not from THAT accident). My beloved half marathon sticker wasn't even scuffed. So I gave the stressed-out stranger lady an awkward hug, because, well, I'm a hugger.

And we went on our ways.

Because dealing with car insurance junk for no good reason on my birfday? Ain't nobody got time fo dat!

It was too early for pancakes (wait, that isn't possible-let's say I was too early for pancakes for dinner), so I went window shopping. Because I didn't have money to buy random stuff, and stores don't generally give away stuff just because it's my birthday...sigh.  Seriously, having birthdays as a grown up just isn't as cool.

As a kid, birthdays were incredible. I got attention and special treatment. It was like being a princess for a day.

Then, being a grown up happened, and suddenly birthdays are just ordinary days. You have to pay bills and deal with stuff like car issues and sickness. You have to go to work. No one notices or cares. You have to think about calories. Sometimes you even get your heart broken. Because sometimes grown-up birthdays are jerks.

But I went to IHOP with some lovely friends. I got attention and love, I got presents (including a Captain America puzzle that is almost as awesome as a David Tennant). I got free pancakes, because IHOP offers a free meal for birthdays. Because some people get it that birthdays are still pretty special days.

And I even got a Birthday Crown.

SAA Ep. #72: When Cookies Talk

About two and a half weeks ago, I reread this fascinating, albeit rambling, blog about my own awkward methods of losing weight. After reading it, I realized I needed to take my own advice. Over the holiday season, I'd put on a little weight.

And by "the holiday season," I mean July-December (Independence Day is a holiday, right?).

And by "a little weight," I mean 20 pounds.

So I went back to being a good little Calorie Nazi, and in the past two and a half weeks, I've dropped at least 4 of those regained pounds (I weigh in on Mondays, but it was 4 pounds at the last count).

Things have gone well. I've stayed well within my calorie limits. I've exercised a lot. I'm feeling awesome.

But something happened today that I did not expect. Something awful, and wonderful...and awful...

A few weeks ago I'd ordered some Girl Scout cookies from my favorite local Girl Scout. I had ordered them before I decided to start counting calories and losing weight. I figured then that a few cookies wouldn't hurt. But now that I'm a Calorie Nazi again, these cookies aren't just cookies. They're cheerfully packaged, sugar coated, high calorie discs of evil.

I took these cookies into my home, knowing how few of them it would take to cancel out a whole week's worth of workouts.  I didn't know what to do, so I took them out and looked at them.

...that's when the real struggle began...

I heard a voice, a faint voice, say "Gracias."

"What was that?" I asked, knowing I was in the apartment alone, unless I'd completely forgotten about taking in some new Hispanic roommate....

"Oh, don't worry about TAL. He isn't much of a conversationalist," another voice said. This one was much higher pitched, and much more annoying, than the first. "Are you going to eat us now? Oh, please do!"

"Who said that?" I demanded.

"It's me!" the voice said with a giggle. "Your box of Lemonades!  We are crunchy and sweet! Eat us! Eat us like butterfly pie!"

Amazed, I stared at the five different boxes of cookies on my counter. "But...you're cookies. You can't talk!"

"Of course we can talk," another voice said. "Either that or you're crazy. Hunger can do that to people. I suggest you eat us."

Flabbergasted, I shook my head. "Um...which one of you spoke that time?"

"That was TMI," a completely different voice answered.

"Mango, I told you NOT to call me that!" The cookie box sighed. "I'm Thin Mint. THAT was Mango Creme."

"And I'M," proclaimed another box if cookies, seemingly indignant that I had not addressed it yet, "Caramel DeLite. Formerly known as Samoa. You can call me Sam."

"I call you DeLITEful!" Lemonade squealed with a giggle.

"Asante," said the first voice.

"Let me guess," I said. "That was Thanks-a-lot."

"Oh yes!" Lemonade exclaimed. "TAL is so funny!"

"You're...all funny. Weird funny," I said.

"Weird? Me?" Sam said haughtily. "You just be glad it's just us. There are more of us, you know. Ol' PB Pattie is REALLY a nutter." 

"And Shout Out isn't here, either," Mango said gruffly. "I'm glad you didn't order any of that jerk. If I have to hear that fool shout, "LEAD" one more time, Imma lead him off a cliff."

"I'm surprised short bread isn't here," Lemonade laughed. "That guy always likes to Tag-a-long."

"Must you ALWAYS be so cheerful?" Mango asked Lemonade.

"You know what they say, when life gives you lemons, eat cookies!"

"Yes. Eat cookies," Sam agreed. "If you're through with the introductions, we really would like for you to eat us now."

Again, I shook my head. "You...you WANT me to eat you?"

"Oh yes!" laughed Lemonade. "Getting eaten is our purpose in life."

"She's right," Thin Mint agreed. "We were made to be eaten. You can start with me."

"No, me!" said Mango.

"No, me!" said Sam.

"Hsieh Hsieh," said TAL.

I took a moment to gather my thoughts, then said, "Look, guys...uh...cookies. I'm afraid I have some bad news. ...I am counting my calories."

"That sounds like fun!" chimed Lemonade. "Are calories like butterflies?"

"Uh, no." I said. "And...I'm afraid all of you have too many calories."

"Yay! We're wrapped in a calorie butterfly cocoon of joy," Lemonade breathed happily.

"Again," I said firmly. "NO. You have too many calories. That means I can't eat you."

A collective gasp rose from the cookies.

Even Lemonade sounded disheartened when she...it...said, "But...but...what about the cocoon. We were going to be reborn in your tummy to fly evermore."

"Lemon," Mango said calmly, "I WILL punch you in the face."

"Cookies don't have faces!" Lemonade squealed. "But if we did, I would have a sour puss!"

Mango growled. "This is serious. I mean, what do you mean you can't eat us. I'm nutritious! I have nutrifusion, enhanced with nutrients derived from fruit. I'm healthy!"

"Oh, puh-leeze!" Sam scoffed. "You can read your own box and still miss the words 'artificially flavored.' You aren't healthy. The cookie is a lie. You're just a big box of lie cookies."

"Yeah!" Thin Mints agreed.

"Merci," said TAL.

"Oh yeah, Sam," Mango retorted. "What about you, huh? Your name is a lie. Yours too, THIN Mint. Its a clever marketing scheme. If you're THIN, how can you possibly be unhealthy? Right? RIGHT? Ha! You're not even thin, really. You're just small-chocolated.  And YOU, Sam. Caramel DeLITEs? Who are you fooling, you caramel coconut fatty fatty fathead."

"Ha! That's funny," Lemonade laughed gleefully. "And mean."

"Everyone calm down," I huffed. "I think it's fair to say that none of I are as healthy as you claim."

"But what about my nutrafusion?" Mango asked.

"Sounds like hippy food to me," I said with a shrug.

"Yeah," Sam said sullenly. "If hippies got their food from laboratories instead of hippy farmers."

"Shut it, you," Mango threatened.

"Look," I sighed, "I can eat you guys. I will. I promise. But...it might take me awhile. I will have to eat you one at a time, and not every day. It could take months to finish you all."

Mango seemed satisfied. "Well, that should be okay. We do have a good shelf life."

"You should," Thin Mint snickered. "You have a lot of artificial preservatives."

"You could just put us in the freezer," Sam suggested.

"Oh, yes!" chirped Lemonade. "The freezer is like an icy winter butterfly cocoon of joy."

"There's your hippy cookie," Thin Mint said dryly.

I had had enough. "Ok. Everyone into the freezer. Thin Mints, you first."

"I really do think you're just going crazy from hunger," Thin Mint said as I put the box inside the freezer.

"It's better this way," Sam said as his turn came. "I taste even better when frozen."

"Oh, just put me in the freezer already," said Mango. So I did.

"You know what I've always wondered about Girl Scout cookies?" Lemonade asked as I picked up her box.

"What?" I asked hesitantly.

"How come we don't taste like actual Girl Scouts?"

I sighed and put her in the freezer.

Then I picked up TAL, expecting to hear some annoying word of thanks in some weird language. But he was silent. So I put him in the freezer and closed him inside with the others.

But as I turned away to continue my dictatorship as Calorie Nazi, I heard a faint voice whisper, "Thank You."

Fun With Autocorrect Episode 1

I just got a smart phone back in December, and I was finally able to start using it at the beginning of the month. Having a smart phone has made my life easier. I can now just tell Google: "grumpy cat" and it will look up hundreds of images of that cute little furball, and deliver them right to my phone. Only sometimes it gets confused and thinks I said, "crumpled bat," and I don't really want to see any pics of that guy.

Another way my phone has misunderstood me is via Swype. I used to make fun of people who sent weird typos or strange words in texts, but now I get it. I get it like pie.

I have no idea what that meant.

Anyway, to do what I do best, turn awkwardness into hilarity, I'm going to Swype out a mundane story and NOT correct the mistakes that autocorrect corrected. Does that make sense? I don't know. But I hope this will be funny. And not too inappropriate. Because autocorrect sure seems to like being naughty. Here goes:

A Trip to Walmart by Socially Awkward Girl:

One day I went yo Walmart to buy syne stuff. I was out of Shani and conditioner. I also needed syne deodorant because I was out and sometimes I sumo.  I also needed see food because reading is fun and kind of impotent if you d want to nut fur.

So I went to get my Tuileries, and there in the middle of the agile was a skiing cat.  I couldn't get asking the shopping cat.  it Furth have anything in it, but I thought it might belong to someone ego also wanted to but deodorant.  I tried, but my cart was too wide to get stringy the other shopping cart. 

I was nervous. I looked both ways, Hong no one would see Mt move the song carry.  What if someone had pt an alarm on it and it aster being in the mogul of the sir? I would be do embarrassed.  But I was bold and brave enough to rich that cart  and I nudged it or of the wast.  No one even knew the stiffened.

It then leaned down to get my deodorant and realized they were out. So I Sigurd if just be stinky fur a wholly.

Then I went to get my shampoo, and three was a least there reading the label and I coign Getty pray her. I Bede the same stamp she was looking at. I waited a bit, but fired it was to much terrible, and I fled the aisle before she cod talk to me or emerging equally scary.

Them I went to get food. I got stunt you're and some peruse and see surface and Dunne pirates. The latex were particularly fresh.

I didn't get any salad because UT looked beige. And I was or of shag dressing and didn't think about buying any mute.

Then I guy syne I've cream, because I like ice can.

I went to the self checkout to avoid taking to puerile, but the machine went crazy and the annoyed checkout dude had to come help me. Really, I just let him scam my items fir Mr, which was naturally like I had give to a deviously checkout Kane in the first paddle. But I didn't.

Then I took my groceries home and put them in the Grieg. All except fit the I've crash.  That I are with a soon dyestuffdrum the creation.

Then I webby r sheep braids the asterisk intersection Weir me out.

The end.

More Fun With Technology

It's a pretty well known fact that technology and I aren't really good happy friends, but lately things have just gone completely crazy-go-nuts.  I've come to the conclusion that technology is allergic to me.

 I haven't had home internet access since this past summer, but that's not a big deal.  I can always go to the library and use their free interwebs.  And that way, I also get to mingle with all the other poor fools who don't have home internet, or who, for whatever reason (coughinsanitycough), just really like public computers.  No, it's not so bad, especially if you like kids who have no concept of personal space and who loudly fart as they're hysterically playing their Nick Jr. games online while mommy sits in the corner grabbing a free half-hour to read her grownsup novels.  ...or if you like large boy-men in their mid forties who mutter to themselves while playing online video games that their mommies said they couldn't play in the basement anymore.  ...or if you just like having to wait in line to get a half hour to check your facebook.  No.  Not so bad.  Just keep telling yourself...not.  so. bad.

Also, earlier this year the cord to my camera broke, which was almost a good thing.  My camera was used when I got it.  I got it in 2005.  So maybe an upgrade wouldn't be a bad idea.  But I was too broke to get a new camera.  I used the camera on my phone, but I didn't have a cord for it either.  And since my phone was not smart, I kind of needed the cord to get anything off it.

But I'm glad I didn't invest in a cord, because recently, my phone died the death.  I figured it wasn't a big deal, and I started using my old Razor.  Don't laugh.  The Motorola Razor was the stuff...back in 2007.  Now...it's like an antique.  And it's really hard to text on that thing.  Do NOT take your qwerty keypads for granted, people.  But THAT doesn't matter anymore, because now my old Razor, the epitome of phones back in 2007, has decided that it's too cool to send texts.  For a while, it decided it was too cool to even receive texts, but I punched it in the face.  Now it will let me see my texts, as long as they're not those fancy shmancy new fangled picture texts.  It's way too cool for THOSE.

And it isn't like I ever got good phone service anyway.  I have always had horrible phone reception in my apartment.  I figured it was because I lived in a black hole that ate cell phone reception for breakfast.  But I have come to realize as of late that whatever it is that keeps eating my cell phone reception only likes to eat cell phone signals from my current provider. 

I like my provider, for the most part.  I don't want anyone to think I have any hard feelings against them whatsoever.  I'm not even going to say their name on this blog, lest someone harbor hard feelings against them on my behalf.  Let's call this cell phone service provider BS&S. 

Since a) my phone stopped working AND my back up phone stopped working well AND my other back up phone (a pre-Razor flip phone that makes me feel like I'm signalling Scotty on the U.S.S. Enterprise to beam me up) wasn't working AND neither of the TWO phones I borrowed wanted to work for me either (technology is allergic to me), I decided it was time to get a new phone, and b) BS&S wasn't working for me either, I decided it was time to get a new phone service.  I'm still on my family plan with BS&S, and so I asked my dad to look into cancelling the plan.  I knew my contract with them doesn't expire till the end of this month, but when my dad talked to the nice people at the store, they said I could get out of my contract early.

So I did my research and decided to go with a new prepaid plan from Walmart, because let's face it, I'm a Walmart kinda girl.  Their StraightTalk phones use different providers, so I made sure I was getting a phone that didn't use BS&S.  I made sure I got a phone that used the same cell towers as my new roommate, because she gets excellent reception.  It's not a dumb phone.  It's a Smart Phone.  In fact, it's probably smarter than I am.

Now, I had to call BS&S to cancel my service before I could set up my new phone and StraightTalk plan (because I want to keep my old number--just because I'm lazy and stuff).  Well, BS&S was all like, "You no can has."  My dad called them, too, reminding them that he'd been told the contract could be cancelled early.  My dad also reminded them that he'd already paid the bill through the end of the contract, so they had their money and everything.  BS&S was all like, "I'm sorry, Dave, I'm afraid we can't do that...unless you pay us $60 bucks in cancellation fees."  I was like, "Can't you cut me a break, because my dumb phone broke and my even older dumb phone has a talking bird in it like on the Flinstones, and I would really like to be able to use my new awesome Smart Phone.  It's Christmas, after all!"  They were all like, "We own your butt until December 28.  Merry Christmas."  Please remember, I hold NO ill will against BS&S.  None.  At all.  Just keep telling yourself...none...at...all.

So basically, I'm going to be flipping open my awesome retro only barely functioning Razor for another couple weeks.  It's not so bad.  I mean, the way I see it, they'll be using them in the future.  Captain Kirk will be using them to tell Scotty to beam him up.  And then, Captain Picard will get the great idea to have people wear badges that have communicators inside of them.  In fact, I'm going to just beat the trend and start wearing my cell phone on my shirt. 

...or I'll just keep using my old Razor that won't let me text for a couple more weeks.  And just keep telling myself it's not. so. bad.

Embarassing Confession #12: Do You Want Taxes With That?

So when I was a little girl, Ronald Regan was president.

...but I was like four and really confused...

...and I totally thought this guy was leading our country:

 

 

 

I would vote for him.

SAA Epi.# 71: Doily Angst

I’ve blogged here before about how I’m kind of one of the guys.  Back in college when I had a lot of single guy friends, I felt way more comfortable hanging out with a group of them than I did with a group of girls.  I’d rather watch “The Matrix” than a chick flick (unless it’s “While You Were Sleeping” featuring mid-90’s version Bill Pullman.  And his hair).  I’d rather do guy stuff than girl stuff.

 That’s not to say that I’m not girly.  I mean, I have a ribbon collection.  A ribbon collection, I tell you.  With ribbons. 

 

I like colors.  I like new dresses.  I like tea parties.  I like glitter.  I like kitties.  I love flowers, and I’m stoked that the current fashion trends allow for (and even encourage) big poofy flowers.  Seriously, when the trend finally fades away, I’m still going to keep wearing big poofy flowers.  It’ll be like back in the 80s when I got made fun of for wearing bell bottoms with disco roller skate patches.  Eventually, I succumbed to the tight rolling, but not because I liked it.  I fell into the whole peer pressure racket.  But no more.  Never again. 

 

They may take away my bell bottoms, but they will NEVER take my POOFY HAIR FLOWERS!!!!!  AAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHH!

 Yeah.

 And now that I’m older and all the guys I know are married, I have been forced to hang out with other ladies more.  I’ve found that they’re pretty cool, too, in small doses.  And just so long as they don’t force me to watch some Kate Hudson flick about feelings.

 See, the thing is, I think that whenever you get too much estrogen together in an enclosed space, bad things happen.  It’s probably also dangerous to have too much testosterone together in an enclosed space, but the consequences are very different.  For instance, if you get a bunch of guys together, there might be a bar fight.  Bar fights, from what I’ve surmised from watching non-chick flick movies—and my favorite episode of the original Star Trek, “The Trouble With Tribbles--are whimsical events involving 1) alcohol, 2) Irish fiddle music, 3) lots of guys hitting each other and throwing each other around for no apparent reason.  There might be a black eye or two, but it’s all in good fun.  A day or two later, after the swelling goes down and the hangovers wear off, everyone is friends again. 

 But when you get a room full of women together and their estrogen mingles, terrible things happen.  Perfectly innocent flowers, which could have been used to make future fashionably questionable hair accessories, become table arrangements.  Glitter, which could have been put to nobler use, is scattered upon a table top.  In fact, this glitter is now sold in packages purposed only to be scattered upon tabletops.  It’s name?  Table Scatter.  The horror!  And don’t get me started on doilies.

 Uh oh.  You got me started on doilies.

 Doilies.  They're lace soaked in malice and coated in evil.  First off, what’s with the word “doily?”  It’s like someone wanted to make the sissiest sounding name in the world.  If I didn’t know what a doily was and someone just randomly said, “Doilies don’t make good frisbees,” I’m pretty sure I’d know what they were talking about.  The very name sounds like a flimsy lace thingy that doesn’t serve any particular purpose besides making things look ridiculously feminine. 

 Ok, so not all doilies are bad.  My former roommate had a doily.  I didn’t hate it.  I didn’t like it.  I was indifferent to it.  It was a non-threatening doily.  It sat on my little round table underneath the lamp and minded its own business.  I wish all doilies were like this.

 But no.  Most doilies are vicious.  They are vicious in ways that only purposeless, overly-feminine, estrogen-overdose-induced things can be.  These are the doilies that don’t sit neutrally under a lamp in the comfort and safety of my own home.  These doilies make themselves known.  They garnish the tables of women’s events at churches.  They demand your attention, saying, “Behold!  I am a doily!  I exude femininity, and if you are a woman, you must love me, or else be SHUNNED!" 

 

I’m onto you, evil doily scum.  I GRR at you.

 Every time I see a doily advertising a women’s event, it makes me angry.  Why?  It’s the implication that all women have to like frilly things.  In my mind, it all leads to the implication that all women are the same and have to like the same things.  When there’s a woman’s event, I have to like it and attend it because I’m a woman.  When some syrupy voiced woman starts talking about women’s issues in Scripture, I have to both relate to and agree with everything she says (no matter how weak the theology).  Well, guess what.  I don’t like Beth Moore studies, and I don’t care who knows it.  I can’t stand listening to that Proverbs 31 Ministries woman who has these 30 second blurbs on KLOVE radio.  I don’t like women’s retreats.  I don’t like getting my nails done or…~shudder~…massages.  I don’t like recipe swaps.  I DON’T LIKE NO STINKIN’ DOILIES*.

 Ahem.

 Yeah, so, um, yeah…I’m knitting a lot these days.  I’m, uh, making some scarves for a Women’s Expo at my church.  It’s happening in October.  There’s going to be a lot of estrogen there.  And maybe a few doilies. 

 Me?  I’m selling scarves, not doilies.  Scarves.  And also hair flowers.  Come buy one and in a few years, when they’re as fashionable as bell bottoms in the late 1980s, wear it and think of me.

 

*Please note that I’m not saying that it’s wrong for people to like doilies.  If you like doilies and/or any of the other feminine stuff I “hated on” in this blog, don’t stop liking it on my account.  You see, I was once pressured into the silly habit of making the hem of my pant legs adhere as closely to my leg as humanly possible, even though it made me look like a pale, short, long haired version of M. C. Hammer; I don’t want to pressure anyone.  I’ve just found that some doilies seem to be more than the innocent pieces of lace that they appear to be.  I just want to reveal the truth.  The truth about doilies. 

 

What you do with that truth is up to you.

 

Husband Questionaire

It has come to my attention that, while I don’t *need* a husband, having one would be beneficial to me in a variety of ways.  Therefore, I thought it prudent to start accepting husband applications to qualified members of the human male population. 

This is not an application.

What I have compiled here is a questionnaire that will help potential husband applicants determine whether or not they should even bother applying for the position of my husband.  The higher the score, the more likely you are to be a good potential candidate for my husband.  The lower the score, the more likely you should forget it and go cry into a tub of Ben & Jerry’s.  Even if you are not interested in applying to be my husband, please read the following rating guide, just in case you know of any eligible men who might be suitable for the position. 

Ruth’s Potential Husband Questionnaire:

1. Are you a straight human male between the ages of 28-40? 

[If you answered yes, you don’t get any points, but if you answered no, then give yourself negative bazgillion points and go home, stopping by your nearest Ben & Jerry’s dealer along the way.]

2. Do you have what others have described as “mad guitar skillz”?

[No= 0 points, Yes= +200]

3. Do you have a full time job with health insurance benefits that you can pass on to your hypothetical spouse and children?

[No= 0 points, Yes= +500]

4. Do you have an Australian and/or Scottish accent?

[No= 0 points, Australian Accent= +150 points, Scottish Accent= +175 points, Australian AND Scottish Accent = +20 gazmillion and 3 points.  Irish Accent= +25 points, British Accent= +50 points, Jamaican Accent= +15 points. French accent= -75 points]

5. Would you be willing to either hire a maid or clean up after your absent-minded, writer-brained wife?

[No= -15 points, Yes= +25 points]

6. Do you like The Princess Bride?

[No= -25 points, Yes= +25 points, “AS YOU WISH”= 472 points, “Is that a kissing book?” = -75]

7. Do you mind if your wife quotes the entire movie while you’re watching The Princess Bride?

[Yes= -10 points, No= +15 points, “Anybody Wanna Peanut?”= 132 points]

8. Do you like it when people randomly burst into song all the time?

[Yes= +75 points, No= 0 points, “Ugh! I can’t stand it!” = -5 trillion points, “Mind if I join you? I can sing and dance like Gene Kelly” = +800 points]

9. Do you like kitties?

[No= -45 points, Yes= +25]

10. Do you like kitties as much as the crazy old cat lady who lives down the street?

[No= 0 points, Yes= -300]

11. How do you feel about Dragons?

[“Meh”= 0 points. “Dragons are stupid”= -75. “I like Dragons”= +25. “I LOVE Dragons”= +100. “TROGDOOOOOOOOR!” = +4 million

12. Are you faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, and also a mild-mannered reporter who works for the Daily Planet?

[No= 0 points, Yes= +500]

13. Do you have the ability to use Saran Wrap without getting it stuck to a) itself, b) you, c) everything besides what you want it to stick to?

[No= 0 points, Yes= +75]

14. What is your opinion of the Beatles?

[“Little black bugs? You spelled it wrong” = -200 points, “No sir, I don’t like them” = -150 points, “They’re okay.” = 0 points, “I love the Beatles!” = +100 points, “I died a little when I heard that George Harrison was dead” = +150 points, “They’re the best band ever, but I’m not a huge fan of John Lennon without the other three” = +250 points]

15. Do you like kids?

[No= -300,000 points, Yes= +100 points, “I want to adopt enough kids to close down an orphanage” = +500 points]

16. Do you like the beach?

[Yes= 0 points, “Um, yeah…everyone loves the beach! What kind of idiot doesn’t love the beach?” = -250 points, “No, I have a basic understanding that some wonderful, beautiful, talented, intelligent people are so horrifically pale that going to the beach even for a few minutes can cause third degree sunburns, I don’t like sand, and besides, I much prefer the mountains” = +400 points.

17. Do you like the mountains?

[No= -100 points, Yes= +100 points, “I want to see mountains again, Gandalf…MOUNTAINS!!” = +1000 points

18. Are you good at fixing cars?

[No= 0 points, “No, but I’m good at taking cars to the mechanic because I know you don’t like to do it” = +150, Yes = +300]

19. Cooking?

[“That’s woman’s work” = -200 points, “That thing with the slots is called a ‘toaster,’ right??” = -50 points, “I make a mean grilled cheese” = +10 points, “I accept that my wife is not a gourmet chef and also has a healthy obsession with calories and spaghetti squash, and I will either eat whatever she serves me or make my own stupid sandwich” = +100 points, “I am a nutritionist who can not only feed myself, but provide healthy, delicious meals and snacks for my wife and family” = +700 points]

20. Exercise?

[“I don’t mind if you exercise, as long as you don’t mind if I’m an unhealthy slob” = 0 points,  “You ran a half-marathon? Why didn’t you run a full marathon, you lazy slacker?” = -100 points, “I insist that you run with me and that you keep up with my 7 minute mile pace” = -75, “I like to exercise, but not with other people.  I hope you understand” = +75, “I’ll watch the kids while you go train for a race, dear” = +250 points, “I’ll run with the kids in the stroller and train for a race with you, dear” = 1732 points]

21. Bananas?

[“Huh?” = -12, “In Pajamas!” = - 42 billion, “Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring BANANA PHONE!” = +200 points]

22. Star Trek?

[“It’s for nerds.” = -15, “It’s for nerds.  I’m a nerd.” = +1701, “I see what you did there.” = +an additional 100 uber nerd points on top of the points for already being nerdy]

23. What is the air speed velocity of an unladen swallow?

[“I don’t know that! AAAARRRRRGGGGHHHH!” = 0, “Blue…no yellllooooowwwwwaaaaaarrrgh!” = 0, “What do you mean, African or European?” + 3 points…I mean 5.”

24. If you were going to buy your lady a present, you would buy her….

[“Something frivolous and sweet, like flowers, which will die in a few days because my lady has a brown thumb” = +3 points, “Something frivolous and sweet, like artificial flowers, with my full understanding that she will probably take them apart and try to make crafts out of them later” +15, “Something expensive like diamond jewelry, which could have been money better spent on doing something charitable for others = -15 points, “Something functional like a hair dryer, because my lady’s hair needs some serious help” = +10, “Something fun that she actually asked for like a dvd or book” +25, “Something meaningful and inexpensive, like cheap jewelry that I know she’d like.” +50, “I’d rather spend time with her instead of money, because she would rather have that.” = 100 points, “Something expensive that she needs and can’t afford right now, like a computer or house or a car that doesn’t make funny noises” = 200

25. Are you ticklish?

[No=  0, Yes= +30]

26. Do you know where you put your shoes?

[Yes= +25, No= 0, “Um, isn’t it your job to remember where I put them?” = -100 points]

27. Ketchup?

[“It’s a vegetable” = -30, “It’s okay” = 0, “I put it on EVERYTHING!” = -200, “UGH! Why would anyone DO that to a perfectly delicious tomato?” = +100]

28. When Frodo becomes too weak to carry the One Ring, what do you do?

[“I don’t know.  I never saw the movie.  …wasn’t there a book, too, or something?” = -4,000 points, “Beat down the nasty Hobitses, bite off his fingerses, grab the Precious, hold it over my head in triumphses, dance like a mad fool, and fall into the fires of Mount Doom.” = -12, “Take it for myself and use it for good.  It works like that, right?” = -16, “Um…wait for Gandalf.  He’ll know what to do.” = -2, “The Eagles should be coming along any minute…?” = +2, “I can’t carry it for him, but I CAN carry him!” = +57 million

29. Is your name actually Samwise?

[No= 0, Yes= +100]

30. Do you insist on opening car doors for your lady?

[No= 0, “Yes, absolutely, all the time.” = -100, “If my lady likes it, I will, but I understand that not all women are the same, and some don’t like that.” +500]

31. Toilet paper: over or under?

[Over = +25, Under = -25]

32. Would you rather be a large duck in a small pond, or a small duck in a large pond?

[“A large duck in a small pond” = 0, “A small duck in a large pond” = 0, “Why would I want to be a duck?” = 97]

33. Hugs?

[“No.” = -100, “Sure” = +50, “Not drugs!” = +100]

34. What would you do for a Klondike Bar?

[“I hate chocolate” = -10, “I don’t know” = 0, “Some ridiculous feat they asked me to do on a commercial” = -5, “Um, I’d go to the store and BUY one.” = +15]

35. How do you feel about Eeyore?

[“Who’s that? The horse from Winnie the Pooh?” = -87, “Aww, that guy is SUCH a downer! Cheer up, crankypants!” = -300, “He’s cute, but I wish he would smile more.” = -100, “Eeyore is awesome. So few seem to realize how joyful the guy really was.  He was happy to receive nothing more than a broken balloon and empty hunny pot on his birthday.  He was just so happy to know that his friends loved him enough to try.  That’s what I call a positive attitude!” = +100]

36. Chick flicks?

[“I hate them all” = 0, “Chick flicks are so romantic!  Let’s watch them and snuggle.  Then I’ll paint your toenails and we can eat cookie dough.  TEE HEE!” = -300, “I can tolerate the classics, and honestly, some of them aren’t too bad.  But in general, not so much.” = +50, “Lucy Moderadtz, I’ll be your Jack Callaghan.” = +38 bazgillion

37. Do you know the muffin man?

[No= 0, “Yes, he works at the bakery” = 0, “Who lives on Drewry Lane?” = +63]

38. Can you understand math well enough to help a hypothetical child do their seventh grade math homework?

[No= -10, “No, but we can hire a tutor” = +50, “Yes, I’m good at everything math and science” = +100]

39. What do you think of when I say “Buttercup?”

[“Didn’t we already have questions about The Princess Bride?” = +50, “Mmm, Reese’s Peanut Buttercups!” = +50, “My little buttercup, has the sweetest smile!” = +50, “Flower?” = -12]

40. Fairy Tales?

[“Are for kids” = -200, “Are for kids, and I’m a kid!” = +100, “Are better when people try to modernize them.” = -100, “C. S. Lewis thought they were important.  Works for me.” + 200]

41. Elmo?

[“That little furry monster is hilarious! I could tickle him all day long!” = -250, “I can’t stand him.” = 0, “I don’t like him personally, but the fact that he can keep a room full of two-year-olds occupied for twenty minutes is, quite frankly, amazing.  And also, how does a big guy like Kevin Clash make himself sound like that?” = +150]

42. What is the meaning of life, the universe, and everything?

[“We will never know.” = -50, “God” = +10 points for trying, “42.” = +42 points.]

Now total up your crazy points:

-If you scored below zero, especially in the neighborhood of a negative bazgillion points, then please remember to pick me up a pint of Phish Phood when you’re getting your conciliatory Cherry Garcia.

-If you scored somewhere between +1 and +1000, then you are permitted to take me to dinner and a movie, but only because it would be nice to get free food and a show.  It’s not like we’re meant to be or anything.

-If you scored over 1000 but less than bazgillion, then hey, I’ll give you a shot.  You can buy me free food and take me to free shows all you want.  Unless I actually find a Scottish/Australian hunk named Samwise who loves Dragons like a fat kid loves cake.  If I find a guy like that, then you can join the Ben & Jerry’s club, ‘cause I’m going to drop you like you’re hot.  But not like Samwise Gamgee hot.  More like spaghetti squash hot.

-If you scored in the neighborhood of a bazgillion points, then dude.  I don’t believe you exist.  1) Because awesome guys like you don’t exist outside of works of fiction, and 2) even if you did exist, I’m pretty sure someone else would have already snatched you up. But if you do exist and are still, in fact, single, then I’d like to snatch you up before someone else does.  So…call me…

…maybe…

Life Under Construction: AKA My Fridge is In My Living Room

Sorry for the lack of posts this summer.  You see, metaphorically speaking, my fridge is in my living room.  Literally speaking, my literal fridge was literally in my literal living room for a few days.  But given the weirdness and general topsy-turvyness that has composed my summer, I must admit that I still very much feel as though my fridge is in my living room, even though the nice man who speaks very little English moved it back into the kitchen after he was through tearing up my kitchen floor and piecing it back together from non-termite-infested wood...but I digress.

Once I have metaphorically moved my metaphorical fridge back into my metaphorical kitchen, I plan on recording the awkwardness of my crazy-awesome life as I previously have recorded it for all of you to see.

But sometimes your fridge is in your living room, and sometimes that's okay.  And sometimes it's okay to take some time to figure it all out again.  Whether that means hiring a nice man who speaks very little English to come move your fridge back for you, or whether it means just redecorating your living room to accommodate the new fridge decor, life will get back to some kind of normal.

Unfortunately for me, but fortunately for my readers, my kind of normal is often pretty awkward and unusual.  But I like it.

Until I figure out what normal is, stay tuned...thanks for your patience.

Embarrassing Confession #11: Operatic Hippy

I have a problem.

Okay, so that might be the biggest understatement of the year.  I, in fact, have multiple problems…like my obsession with hair flowers…or my personal vendetta against Saran Wrap…or my consumption of what might be considered to be disturbing amounts of tea….

Yes.  I’ve got issues.  I’m pretty sure everyone is aware of that by now.  I’ve made peace with it.  I really have.  I used to look in the mirror and think, “Wow…that girl is a frizzy-haired, freakishly pale basket case.  Like, I mean, a whole stinkin’ case of baskets.” 

The world of motivational posters and mid-afternoon Public Service Announcements gave me messages like, “Believe in yourself,” or some other nonsense that was supposed to make me actually think that I was not, in fact, a whole case of baskets.  But they didn’t work.  I never had one of those moments where I looked in the mirror and said, “Wow…that girl is awesome because she’s no longer a frizzy-haired, freakishly pale basket case.”  I’ve never been able to really believe in myself, and I’m okay with that, because I do believe in God.  And I figure that God made me to be a frizzy-haired, freakishly pale basket case, and He probably made me this way for a reason.  So now, I look in the mirror and still see the same person, only I kinda think she’s neato-mosquito, because God did (and is still doing) a good job with her.

I also use phrases like “neato-mosquito,” which is also problem, but it’s not the problem I want to discuss at this particular moment in time.

The problem I have has plagued me for most of my adolescence and all of my adult life.  I’ve been singing in church choirs and such since I was probably about three years old, but it wasn’t until I got to high school that I realized I had a problem.  Now, while I love to sing and often randomly burst into song in public…and in private…and pretty much all the time, the love of singing isn’t the problem.  Not at all.  People seem to like hearing me sing (I'm convinced that God gave me a decent singing voice because my constant singing would be even more annoying if I couldn't carry a tune), even when I’m singing at what others might consider to be inappropriate times (What? You don’t sing while you’re doing laundry?).  But…well…okay, so here it is.

Since I passed puberty and got my big girl singing voice, there has come a time in every choral or vocal experience when I’ve had “The Talk.”  “The Talk” always goes something like this:

Musical Person of Some Sort (or MPOSS—that sounds like a really cool rapper name, but I’m getting off track): Hey, Ruth, could you come here?

Me: (nervously…because I feel like I’m being called to the musical equivalent of the principal’s office) Um…okay.

MPOSS: I wanted to talk to you about your singing.  First off, you have a beautiful voice.

Me: Thanks you.

MPOSS: But…

Me: *GULP* (Here it comes…)

MPOSS: About your vibrato…

Me: *SIGH* (Oh noes! Not again!)

MPOSS: It doesn’t always suit the style of song we’re singing.

Me: I know, I know, I….

MPOSS: And there’s been some concern that your outrageous vibrato is causing earthquakes in Siberia.

Me: Harsh.

MPOSS: I realize you were probably trained to sing that way in voice lessons, but….

Me: I never had voice lessons.

MPOSS: (Pause) Oh.  Then you just like the way it sounds?? 

Me: No.  Look, I’m not TRYING to sing with vibrato.  I’m really, really not.

MPOSS: (Another pause) Really?  Well, I guess that’s a relief.  I thought you were doing it on purpose.  I thought maybe you were trying to take “Blessed Be Your Name” to a-whole-nother level or something.

Me: No, no.  It’s just the way I sing.

MPOSS: Well, can you sing...a little differently?  Without the vibrato?

Me:  I’ll try, but…I can’t make any promises.  I can’t seem to control the vibrato.

MPOSS: You can’t?

Me: I guess you could say that the vibrato controls me.

MPOSS: (Yet another pause) Well, keep trying.  Last week one of the deacon’s glasses lenses shattered during the offertory, right when you hit a wavering high note.

(Just for the record, it’s really not possible for glass to shatter just because someone sings a wavering high note.  They proved it to be impossible on Myth Busters.  Now you know.)

I’ve had more than one of these conversations.  I’ve also gotten random comments on my vibrato, ranging from, “Not so much vibrato, Ruth” to “Gee, Ruth, everything isn’t an opera.”  I can’t help it.  Ever since I got my big girl singing voice, I’ve had a big fat trembling vibrato that’s gone with it, astounding and perplexing spectators and fellow musicians, alike. 

A few years ago, I was playing a game called “Karaoke Revolution” with some friends.  The point of the game is to match pitch on all the notes at all the right times.  I confused the video game because it didn’t know how to process a vibrato of my caliber.  And I lost.

I lost hard.

Stupid vibrato!  Why must you torment me?!?  Why are you an ever-present thorn in my side…or in my vocal chords???

My friends were right.  Everything is not an opera.  Unless I sing it.  Because with all my years of singing, there are only two vocal styles I have mastered.  The first, of course, is opera.  Which is pretty much only useful if I’m pretending to be Christine Daae…which actually happens more than one might think…

The other vocal style I’ve mastered?  Well…I can’t bust out any contemporary styles, but give me a guitar, and I can break away from the opera curse for a while.  I can strum that guitar and start singing stuff that would make the Partridge Family jealous.  I can sing like a hippy, yo.  A bad hippy, of course, but a hippy none-the-less.  I’m sure the vibrato is still there, lurking in the shadows, waiting to come out, but I think it sulks and remains dormant for a while because it is offended by my horrendous guitar playing.  Also, I kind of think it gets annoyed when I sing about sunshine, flowers, puppy dogs, and rainbows.

So, there you have it. 

I’m an operatic hippy.

In fact, I’m a frizzy-haired, freakishly pale, operatic hippy. 

And also a whole case of baskets.

And I still think God did a pretty good job.

Neato-mosquito.

And, oh, what the hey…

Awesome possum, too.