SAA Ep. #69: I Can Has Normal Experience?

You know what I want?  Do you want to know what I want?  I mean, do you really, really want to know what it is that I want?  I'd better tell you what it is that I want before I bust into a Spice Girls' song.  Do you know what I want?  I mean besides a book contract...and a cookie that actually burns calories...and a brand new car that runs on laughter...and a million dollars...and the ability to fly...and a handsome husband with mad guitar skillz and an Australian and/or Scottish accent.  ...and a kitty....

I want to be able to run a simple errand like a normal person and have a normal experience.

That's all I want.

I mean, you'd think that awkward social experiences just naturally come with the territory when one has the alter-ego of "Socially Awkward Girl," but it's not like I go out looking for awkward social encounters.  Sometimes I experience awkwardness because I'm awkward, and sometimes it seems that awkward experiences just find me.

For instance, I had two socially awkward encounters the other day.  Both were while I was shopping for groceries, and as you might have read, shopping produces all sorts of opportunities for social awkwardness.  At least it does for me. 

The first awkward encounter was while shopping at an Aldi grocery store.   I've never shopped at this store before, but luckily, a friend had told me about the stores before I ventured out on my own.  Aldis are different because 1) you have to pay a quarter to use the shopping carts, which you are supposed to be able to get back after you return the cart, and 2) you have to bring your own shopping bag or purchase bags at the store.  I got in the store just fine.  I figured out how to put the quarter in the cart; I shopped; I paid for my groceries.  Aldi provides a little grocery bagging area so shoppers can bag their own groceries.  So I bagged my groceries and left the store. 

Then came the time to figure out how to get my quarter back.

I couldn't figure it out.  There seemed no logical way to make my quarter come back.  I asked a couple who were putting their groceries in their trunk.  They said, "Stick the little metal thing in the slot."  Okay.  So I go back to the carts, but I can't figure out which slot they were talking about.  I asked another woman who came up to get a cart.  She had no idea because it was her first Aldi experience, too.  Finally, this 10 year old kid saw that I was having trouble, and he came up and got my quarter back for me, all the while looking at me like I was the biggest moron in the world.  By that time, I was so embarrassed I kind of wish I'd just let the cart keep my quarter. 

That experience came about because 1) I'm socially awkward, 2) I was faced with a new experience, 3) I freak out easily when confronted with new experiences, and 4) I wasn't smart enough to have just run away and accepted the fact that I was never going to see that 25 cents again. 

The socially awkward encounter?  My fault.  Well, it was a little bit the shopping cart's fault for being confusing, but mostly, it was my fault.

The second awkward encounter?  I was shopping at Walmart, my home away from home, the place where I am so comfortable that people often confuse me for an employee.  I made my way to the candy aisle, which is a pretty hopping place.  It was so busy that I had to pull my (free and uncomplicated) shopping cart off to the side and wait for my turn to enter the glorious aisle of sugary confections.  I was talking to my mom on the phone, because for some odd reason I always have to call my mom while I'm at Walmart.  As I was chattering to my mom about my traumatic experience with the Aldi shopping cart, this old guy came up to my cart and tossed in a couple packs of candy bars.  Then he walked away.

In the next 0.5 seconds, several thoughts crossed my mind:
1) That guy didn't see me.  That guy totally thought this was just an empty cart where he could discard the stuff he didn't want!  Dude.  I'm invisible!
2) That guy is probably a secret agent.  He just tossed "chocolate" into my cart, thinking I was his connection.  Maybe his informant told him to look for a lady talking into her cell phone speaking the code phrase, "The shopping cart ate my quarter," and so he mistook me for who he was really supposed to meet.  Whoa.  I feel like Mater in Cars 2.  Whatever you do, do not eat the free pistachio ice cream....
3) By tossing chocolate into my cart, was the old guy telling me I look too skinny?  Maybe if I hadn't been on the phone, he might have shouted something like, "Eat some chocolate, you hippy!"
4) Was that guy trying to give me chocolate because he thinks I'm cute?  That's a little sketch.  He's probably old enough to be my grandfather.  Maybe he's confused and thought I was his granddaughter.  Maybe he's confused and thought I was his wife.  Maybe I should figure out if he needs a ride back to the nursing home.

It turns out, that last thought was closest to the truth, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

It took 0.5 seconds for those thoughts to go through my head, but all I managed to say was, "Um...Mom...uh..." and by that time, the old man was back.  He snatched the chocolate out of my cart and said, "Those aren't for you!"

I laughed and said, "So, Mom, this old guy was either really confused, or he was really trying to mess with me."  Another lady overheard and said, "No, his wife had been standing there a few minutes ago, he wasn't paying attention, and he thought you were her." 

Honest mistake, right?  No harm done, right?

Yeah, but it doesn't change the fact that I can't even buy white Tic Tacs without being bombarded with awkwardness.  In America, land of the free, you'd think a person could buy white Tic Tacs without having to deal with social awkwardness.  Right?  RIGHT?  Sigh.  Even when I'm minding my own business, doing absolutely nothing to create awkwardness, it still seems to find me.

Here's what I'm talking about:

Tonight, when the dad of the girls I watch got home, the first words out of his mouth were, "Ruth, have you seen your car?!?" 

Again, in 0.5 seconds, several thoughts went through my head:
1) A large monkey has taken residence in my automobile's hood.
2) Someone has painted my car orange for no apparent reason.
3) The bumper fell off
4) The door fell off.
5) It 'sploded.
6) It's flying.
7) It's dirty.
8) GASP!  It's clean!?!
9) It's invisible.
10) It turned into a piece of cheese and is being eaten by an R.O.U.S.

Well, as it turns out, what had actually happened was that I had a flat tire.  A flat tire that I had just gotten brand new 2 weeks prior. 

The dad helped me inflate my tire (I keep an air pump in my trunk--because tires and I aren't good happy friends), and I drove it straight to the place where I purchased my tire--and a warranty plan for said tire.

There were no problems with that.  I'd run over a screw at some point (or so they say--I suspect monkies and/or R.O.U.S.es are involved), and it was covered under warranty.  I paid nothing.  The catch?  I had to wait 2 hours to figure this out because the tire place was busy.  So I waited in the waiting area, which was occupied with several out-of-date magazines, a pot of coffee that might have been fresh three weeks ago, a too-loud tv blasting news that no one really cared about, and a dude that I'm going to refer to as...Dude.

So Dude was sitting a few chairs away, minding his own business.  I was minding my own business, too.  I had on my "spinster sweater," was reading my "don't talk to me" book, and wearing my best "I'm antisocial, leave me alone" facial expression.  Dude and I went a good 45 minutes without talking to one another, and that was fine with me.

Then, without any warning, Dude made contact.  "Excuse me?"

I looked up, not bothering to take off my "I'm antisocial, leave me alone" face.

"D'yalasusse?" he said.  Or that's what it sounded like.  I thought he was asking me if I had a tissue, but I wanted to make sure before handing him a pack of tissues.  I always come prepared.  I am a super-hero, after all.

"What?" I asked.

"Do you like sushi?" he asked, enunciating for the hard-of-hearing and/or slow-of-understanding.  I think I might fit both categories.

But I'm especially slow at understanding.  "I like California rolls," I said with a shrug.

"You wanna go get some sushi?" Dude said, raising an eyebrow.

I blinked.  You see, I'm about as oblivious as they get.  I didn't understand what he was asking me.  "Sushi?"

So Dude clarified.  "Do you want to go get some sushi with me?"

Oh. 

First, it's the married guy at the Walmart bakery, then it's Dude from the tire store.  I've been hit on by strangers twice in two months (three times if you count the old guy mistaking me for his wife and trying to give me chocolate...but let's not count him).  This kind of thing can only happen to me, and I'm the person who's probably the least emotionally/mentally equipped to handle it.  Lovely.

In 0.5 seconds, I narrowed down my options.  Fortunately, there were only two:
To eat raw fish with stranger Dude or not to eat raw fish with stranger Dude.  That is the question.

Dude had neither a Scottish nor an Australian accent, and while I am blissfully ignorant to whether or not he possesses mad guitar skillz, I quickly decided against eating raw fish with him.

"Um..." I began, panicking.  Then I did what any socially awkward super hero would do in such a situation. 

"No," I said quickly,  "But I appreciate the offer."  And I literally hid behind my book.  Only now I wasn't wearing my "I'm antisocial, leave me alone" face.  I was wearing my, "For the love of that chubby Michelin Man, would they please get done with Dude's tire issue so we won't have to sit in awkward post-I-shot-him-down silence anymore" face.

The tire gods read my facial expression with mercy and haste.  Dude left about ten minutes after our encounter, leaving me to ponder why why WHY CAN'T I HAVE A NORMAL EXPERIENCE LIKE A NORMAL HUMAN BEING?

Because I'm Socially Awkward Girl.

That's why.

And I think my "I'm antisocial, leave me alone face" is broked.  I need to start wearing a fake wedding band again.

SAA Ep. #68: Many Mes

I've heard it said that everyone has a twin.  Me?  Apparently, I have a lot of them.  I've had strangers come up to me just to tell me that I look like their neighbor's sister's cousin.  I guess I just have "one of those faces."

But I've also been told that I look like certain celebrities.  Maybe those celebrities just have "one of those faces," too.  I don't know.  But the problem with looking like so many different people is that it kind of makes me have a little bit of an identity crisis.  I mean, there's me...but then there's this other person who kind of looks like me.  It's like there are different versions of me walking around.

See, there's me...

The original.  Accept no substitutes.

And then there's the child actress from a beloved 80's science fiction movie, turned drug addict, turned beloved grown-up actress/director, turned Cover Girl model version of me...



Lots of people have told me that I look like Drew Barrymore,
although I haven't gotten it as much in the past few years. 
Personally, I don't see the resemblance, but I'll take it as a compliment.



...and there's the snarky Star Trek Captain version of me...



My real-life mom was the first one to notice my resemblance to
Captain Kathryn Janeway of the Federation Starship Voyager,
which I find ironic, since Janeway could TOTALLY be my Space Mom. 
This, of course, begs the question: Who is my Space Stepdad?

...and then there's the gorgeous red-haired version of me (don't I wish)...



Ok, I have to be honest. 
Only one person has told me I look like Julianne Moore, but it counts! 
I don't really look like her (even when I had red hair),
but a girl can dream.

 ...and then there's the animated rodent version of me...

The resemblance is uncanny.

...and then there's the Middle Earth version of me...

Somehow...Medieval princess hair just isn't as affective when one is wearing a t-shirt....





...and then there's the Hogwarts version of me...

Ok, so no one has ever told me I look like Emma Watson--because I don't.  At all.
But I was Hermione for Halloween one year.



...and the OTHER Hogwarts version of me...



I actually have been told that I look like her.  I'll take it.  I think she's adorable.

...but let's face it...this is the REAL Hogwarts version of me...

...I think I definitely have The Grim....

...and I don't even know what to call this version of me...

It's okay.  We're both pretty fabulous.

...and then there's this...

...after a Dragon and his girl are together for a while, they start to look alike...

...and, of course, Socially Awkward Girl even has a look alike when she's in disguise...





How many versions of you are there??

Story Time #2: Fun With the Easter Bunny

This is a happy Easter story about a happy young woman.

The happy young woman decided to make a happy Easter treat.



Aww!  A happy little Easter Bunny cake with a happy little marshmallow nose, and a happy candy bow tie.   

 

Then the happy young woman got hungry.

The cute little bunny cake never saw it coming.

Aww!  The cute little dead bunny cake bleeds cute little jelly beans.



 MUWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Happy Belated Easter!

The End

SAA Ep. #67: SPRING BREAK SURVIVAL

When most people think of Spring Break, they either think of time off, fun vacations, or of fond memories of their teenage years when they went on wild and crazy road trips to the beach.  I work in drop-in childcare, so when I think of Spring Break, I think of beating my head against a brick wall.

Cuz let’s face it.  When school’s out, a lot of people still have to work.  And those people bring their kids to drop-in childcare centers.  At the same time.  After all the craziness that took place this week, I really feel like I deserve a t-shirt or something that says, “I Survived Spring Break at the Drop-In Center!”

Okay, okay, so it really was a lot of fun.  In fact, I think that for a kid, spending Spring Break at the drop-in center might be good training for the wild and crazy road trips they’re probably going to take when they’re teenagers. 

I was never cool enough to go on one of those wild and crazy Spring Break road trips, but I saw a movie about one of those wild and crazy Spring Break road trips once, so I figure I know all there is to know about them.  Basically, you have a lot of young people dancing and running around, whilst making as much noise as humanly possible.  Cars are zipping by, heedless of pedestrians.  Beach balls are zooming through the air, knocking over anyone who dares to get in the way.  People are doing weird and potentially dangerous things (like trying to race the riding cars down the slide), just because they can.  Yeah.  It’s just like that at the drop-in center during Spring Break. 

We even had the obligatory Spring Break streakers and flashers, those rebel toddlers who decided pants were optional…we had to start doing "pants checks" at the bathroom doors....

And then there were the kids who couldn’t hold their apple juice, the ones that partied just a little too hard.  The other bouncers child care providers and I even had to take matters into our own hands a few times.  “Johnny, no more juice.  You’ve had enough.”  “I tew-woo when I haz enuff!” Johnny cried, right before passing out on a pillow in the movie center.

A few kids even had to go in time out for their reckless driving on the riding cars.  You’ve never lived until you’ve issued a DUI to a seven-year-old.

Some kids tried to sneak some illegal, hazardous substances into the facility, but our staff is highly trained to detect and eliminate any potential breeches.  “What’s that in your lunch box, Sally?  That looks like a sandwich.  What’s on that sandwich, Sally?  That’s not sun butter, is it, Sally.  No.  That’s not soy butter, either.  I know what kind of sandwich that is.  You know, too, don't you, Sally?  Do you know how many kids we have with peanut allergies, Sally?  Hmm?  Do you see the sign on the door that says we’re a peanut-free facility?  Sigh.  You leave me no choice.  Looks like we’re going to have to call your mom and ask her what she wants us to order you from Subway, because your sandwich is contraband.  Hand over the sandwich, Sally, nice and slow, and nobody gets hurt.”

Now, the saddest sight I saw all week was this one particular two-year-old.  You could tell this kid had done some serious Spring Break partying in her younger days.  But those days are over.  Now, two years old, can’t hold down a job, no education, no spouse, not even potty trained.  Life for her is pretty grim.  I saw her slumped over in the corner, crying pathetically into a box of raisins that some generous soul had been kind enough to give her.  I thought to myself, “For a toddler, it doesn’t get any lower than this.”  Of course, it probably does.  I mean, the substance abuse didn’t start with raisins, and it probably won’t end there.  It probably started with Cheerios, the gateway drug of toddlers.  The first handful is always free.  Once addicted to Cheerios, many kids move on to the harder stuff.  First, it’s a few Cheerios here, a box of raisins there.  Before you know it, the Cheerios and raisins aren’t enough.  I wouldn’t be surprised if she moves on to Goldfish crackers, especially with all the dealers here in the area.  It’s a sad, sad life. 

Yeah.  You go ahead and cry into your raisins, kid.

The really interesting thing about this week at the drop-in center was that we had a new trainee.  Trainees are so adorable in the way they have energy and care and want to do everything perfectly.  Don’t get me wrong—I genuinely care about the kids and try to do my job well.  It’s just that during Spring Break week, it becomes necessary to kick it into “Survival Mode.”  I don’t think too far ahead; I just do what needs to be done when it needs to be done.  My main goal: No one dies. 

That’s very important.  Yes.

Of course, there are lots of secondary goals, such as “Remember to feed the animals children” and “Investigate any unusual smells, puddles, etc.,” “Make sure Timmy isn’t trying to race the riding car down the slide again,” and “For the love of Mr. Potato Head, get that child to stop screaming!” 

But in “Survival Mode,” I don’t have time to make sure that everything is perfect.  Neither do the other workers.  So when Perky Trainee encountered my “Survival Mode,” I think it kind of scared her a little.  And it should scare her.  It should scare her a lot.

Because I was once Perky Trainee.  Once I thought that everything could be perfect.  Once, I too, had a dream.  I had a dream of 40 children playing quietly and peacefully together, giving the other workers and I adequate time to deep clean the entire facility and do all the administrative work whilst dancing to show tunes, turning cartwheels, and flinging handfuls of white rose petals into the air.  Yes, I once had a dream, Perky Trainee.  I had a dream. 

But my soul has died. 

Yours is next.

Toss back a handful of Goldfish crackers, sweetie, and get used to it.

The good thing about “Survival Mode” is that it forces one to be creative in difficult situations.  For instance, during snack time one day this past week, I decided there were too many kids to bother with conventional snack time things—like tables, chairs, plates, cups…and real food.  No, no.  Inspired by the genius of a fellow worker, I had all the kids sit down in a large mob on the carpet.  Then I started flinging packets of fruit snacks (which aren’t real food—they’re like glorified gummy bears—which might be an even harder kid drug than Goldfish) into their midst.  The kids liked this, though they seemed a bit weirded out.  I suspect they might have been less weirded out had I not gone a bit crazy and started exclaiming, “FRUIT SNACKS!  FRUIT SNACKS FOR EVERYONE!  YES!  HAHA!  FRUIT SNACKS FOR THE CHILDREN!  MUWAHAHAHA!” in a semi-creepy voice.  For no apparent reason.

I made sure that every child got exactly one packet of fruit snacks, though a small part of me wondered what would have happened if I had just thrown one packet of fruit snacks in the air and let them fight over it.  That sounds horrible, but I would only be doing them a favor.  It would have been excellent preparation for the annual celebration of kids beating each other senseless in a free-for-all melee to locate and acquire plastic eggs.

Yes.  The main school system here was kind enough to schedule their Spring Break the week before Easter, just so all the drop-in childcare workers would end their “I Survived” week with one last SHABANG!  Wasn’t that nice of them?

You know what I think?  I think that Easter Egg Hunts can almost, almost be compared with the Hunger Games.  (And maybe I’m slightly obsessed with the Hunger Games.  And maybe I’ve considered naming a future pet “Peeta Mellark.”  And maybe I wish Mockingjays were real because I kind of sort of want one (potentially named Peeta Mellark).  And maybe I want to be Effie Trinket for Halloween.  And maybe I’ve been braiding my hair more often lately because it makes me feel like Katniss Everdeen.  And maybe I’M AWESOME DON’T JUDGE ME!)  

I mean, you’ve got these kids hunting eggs.  Sounds simple and innocent enough, right?  But, dude, kids take Easter Egg hunts pretty seriously.  I mean, I’ve seen kids risk permanent self injury in order to grab an egg before their “friend” can reach it.  I’ve seen kids shamelessly steal eggs from other kids’ baskets.  I’ve seen kids who seemed willing to fight to the death over a pastel colored egg that might hold the coveted Starburst candy, or might hold the lame stickers.  The kids don’t even know what’s inside, but they want it.  They want it bad. 

And luckily, at the drop-in center, parents aren’t there for the Easter Egg hunts—but I’ve witnessed parents do some ridiculous stuff in order to make sure their little Suzie gets more eggs than the neighbor’s kid.  You wanna see some good wrestling?  Forget that stuff they show on Spike TV.  Just go to a nice family Easter Egg hunt. 

…or come spend your next Spring Break at the drop-in center.  You, too, can be a Survivor!  You won’t get a tshirt, but there’s Goldfish.

The first handful is free.

Disclaimer (AKA the stuff I feel the need to say so I hopefully won’t get fired): Work was hectic this week, but it was also a lot of fun for both the kids and for me.  I was thankful for an opportunity to see many familiar kids/families I haven’t seen in a while, as well as meet new kids/families.  I enjoyed playing some group games with the kids that we don’t usually play.  There were so many kids of different backgrounds, ages, and personalities, and it was awesome seeing how they interacted.  The kids all went home, not only alive (always a good thing), but also mostly happy, well-fed, and (when applicable) with dry/clean diapers (and pants).  The drop-in center(s) where I work are safe, clean, fun places for kids to play.  The staff is attentive and caring.  I will tell you that the “Survival Mode” bit is true—sometimes we have to just do what it takes to keep everyone safe, but under normal circumstances, the “Survival Mode” is not needed.  Any crying/unhappy children described above were not being neglected or ignored in any way.  They were just in need of a good nap—and possibly a box of Sunmaids….  I can laugh about the things that happened this week, and write about them in a humorous way, because life is funny and kids are funny.  Life with kids is even funnier.  And I’m just grateful for the amazing privilege of caring for the some of the most precious little people in the world.  …I’m more grateful when those precious little people aren’t screaming their heads off, but…that’s why God invented ibuprofen.  …and chocolate.  …and coffee.  …and, yes, Goldfish crackers.

SAA Ep. #66: What WE Learned In Preschool Today

If there was ever a time when I didn't refer to a toilet as a "potty" or a minor injury as a "boo-boo," I really can't remember when it was.  Working with small children for the past decade or so has definitely taken a toll on my vocabulary.

Sometimes I get the impression that childcare workers believe themselves to be royalty.  Maybe it's because we get to boss our little "subjects" around all day.  I don't know.  But it seems strange to me that every single childcare worker I've ever met uses the "royal we."  "WE don't hit our friends.  WE keep our shoes on at school.  WE share our toys with everyone.  WE keep our food to ourselves.  WE always listen to our teachers."  Um...why do I include myself in all those directions? 

I suppose it helps the kid relate to the teacher if the teacher is including herself in the direction.  If the kid believes that the rules are for everyone, he or she might be more likely to obey.  But probably not.  And half the time, when I'm using the "royal we," I'm not even being honest. 

"WE don't throw fits when WE don't get our way."

Actually...yes WE do.  And when WE do, WE have to go sit in the crying corner. 

I have one in my bedroom.  It's awesome.

Since I work with particularly small children, I like to play a little game with them--mainly because I can get away with it.  This game is called, "LET'S use ridiculously big words for no apparent reason and see what happens."  Like the other day, we were talking about shapes.  My one and two-year-olds kept bringing me shapes from the shape-sorter.  They brought me a red circle, so I said, "Look!  A red circle!"  They brought me a blue square, so I said, "Look!  A blue square!"  I think you get the idea.

Well, then a kid brought me another shape.  I'm not sure how this one ended up in our "basic preschool shapes" shape-sorter, but there it was.  So I said, "Look!  A yellow trapezoid!  Can you say 'trapezoid'?"  Most of the kids just smiled at me, because they're smart enough to know I was just being weird again (they catch on quick).  The youngest of the group, though, raised her one year old chin in the air and exclaimed, "BLUP-BLE-BO!" 

Close enough, kid.  Close enough.  My bad for trying to teach you middle school geometry when you're not even out of diapers.

I also like to have in-depth conversations with this particular child about the artificial sweeteners in her yogurt.  I gotta say, she's a good listener, but she doesn't have much to say about aspertame or sucralose.  Probably because her mouth is too full of said artificially sweetened yogurt.  ...or because she's not even two yet.

Sometimes I really get a kick out of the things I hear myself saying while working with small children.  There was one day in particular when I had to use the same phrase in THREE different childcare environments on the SAME day.  It's not a phrase one normally even uses once a day--or ever.  The phrase, "It's not nice to sit on your friends."  Yes.  Yes.  That SHOULD go without saying.  It must have been "Sit on Your Friend Day," and I missed the memo.  Again.  Just wait till next year, when "Sit On Your Friend Day" rolls around again.  Save a spot for me...on your face.

But today at preschool, I think I said the most amazing thing ever. 

What did WE learn in preschool today?

"WE can't just go around taking babies from people and putting them in OUR mouths."

Preschool lesson #1: Kidnapping is bad.
Preschool lesson #2: So is cannibalism.

I guess it's never too early to learn...

SAA Ep. #65: The Birfday Adventure

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



This guy needs a 900 lb. cheeseburger.



Aww.  He's cute.  I think I want one.



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

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

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

THE END.

Wait...

...no it isn't.

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

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

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

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

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

Still, I wasn't sure. 

So I stared at the cakes.

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

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

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

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

Umm, yeah...

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

And he went away. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hmm.

It's the thought that counts.

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

Social Awkwardness Revisited: The Surprise Birthday Party

I posted this last year.  As my birfday is approaching again (funny how it tends to happen every year) I don't *think* anyone is planning any surprises for me, but I figured I'd post this again. Just in case.  No surprises.  No face punching.  Just a happy birfday.

As my birthday inevitably approaches (sigh), I feel the need to post this...just in case.

When I was a little girl, I never had birthday parties with friends. My mom always just made a cake for the family and we ate ice cream and I received presents. I didn't live in this world that most kids seem to live in now--if you don't have a HUGE party for your kids EVERY year, you're apparently a bad parent. I am not picking on my parents. I enjoyed my childhood birthdays. Still, there was a part of me that secretly longed for someone, anyone, to throw me a surprise party.

The surprise parties I saw on the stupid 80's sitcoms all seemed so much fun. I wanted for people to hide, then jump out and shout "SURPRISE!" as soon as I showed up.

And then I grew up.

In my life, I have had two surprise birthday parties. Both were while I was at college. Both were...less than ideal.

Now the first one was actually fun, but it didn't turn out as planned. It wasn't my plans that were ruined, because I wasn't the one who planned anything. But about a week or so before my birthday, I started having some suspicions that someone was planning a party for me. I don't know why I started thinking this. The ions just seemed to be off; the stars were misaligned. I knew. Somehow I knew.

So I told the roommate I had at the time, "Roommate, I think someone is planning me a surprise party. I don't know who, but I know someone is planning it." That roommate and I got along really well, but we weren't extremely close friends. I figured she would be able to keep a secret that I knew someone else's secret.

My birthday arrived and my suspicions became even more confirmed. My friends (who all knew it was my birthday) completely ignored the fact that it was my birthday. That's something people only do when they are trying to hide the fact that they're going to suprise you later. I mean, that's classic 80's sitcom. Classic.

So again, I said to my roommate, "Roommate, I am pretty sure that someone is throwing me a surprise party."

And then this girl who I sorta kinda knew, but not really, called me up and said, "Hey, do you want to come down to the student center later and hang out?"

I said, "Why? We have never really hung out like that before?"

She said, "Oh, I just thought it would be fun to spend some time with you. Can you meet me at the student center at...say 6:30 sharp?"

Yeah. I knew exactly what was going on. She was the bait. She was the lure to get me down to the student center where my surprise party was to be held.

So I turned to my roommate. "Roommate, I'm absolutely CERTAIN that someone is throwing me a surprise party!"

My roommate sighed heavily. "Yes, Ruth. Someone is throwing you a surprise party. It's me. Are you happy, now?"

D'oh.

I went to the student center at 6:30. I acted surprised. I had a great time with my friends, and all in all, it was a fantastic party and a fantastic birthday. But to this day, I still feel guilty for figuring out my roommate's secret and THEN being stupid enough to tell her about it.

The second surprise party I had was on my 25th birthday. At this point, I had already learned from previous mistakes. I told all my friends multiple times that I did NOT under any circumstances want a suprise party...or a party of any kind. What I wanted on my birthday was to spend some time with my boyfriend.

Only my boyfriend spent most of the day ignoring me. I was already depressed about turning 25. I was not feeling well that day. Then, my boyfriend ignored me all day. He didn't meet me for lunch like I asked him to. He didn't meet me for dinner. So I had a serious case of the grumps by about 7:00 that night.

My friends came by to cheer me up. "Ruth, why don't you get out of your room. It's your birthday! Come down to the student center with us and have some fun!"

"No," I said firmly. "It's my birthday, my boyfriend has ignored me all day, and I can be miserable if I want to." (You would cry too, if it happened to you...)

"Really, we don't want you to be stuck in your room," they implored. "Come down to the student center with us. We can play pool or watch movies or whatever you want. Just don't sit all alone in your room."

"No," I said again. "I want to be left alone."

Finally, they realized I wasn't going to come with them. So one of my friends said, "Okay, Ruth, we wanted this to be a surprise, but we're having a party for you, so you kind of have to come to the student center with us. Now. We're late."

D'oh.

And let me tell you, that was probably the most awkward party I've ever been to. I asked them NOT to do it, and they did it. And it was dreadful. My boyfriend was there. He was acting strange. My mood continued to be off. Everyone eventually left because of the tension in the air.

And later on that night, I got dumped.

On my birthday.

Fun times.

...

Anyways...


So I'm not expecting or suspecting any of my friends to throw me a party, surprise or otherwise, but just in case you're one of my friends and the idea popped into your head, I advise you to pop the idea right back out.

I'm socially awkward. I'm introspective. I'm an introvert. In other words, I don't always like people! :-D

I like surprises, but NOT surprise social interactions. If I know I'm going to have to be social, I have better time to prepare myself for it. If a social encounter just jumps out at me and says, "SURPRISE!" then there's a good chance I'm not going to be the best company. In fact, I might get really excited and punch you in the face.

So if you want to throw me a party, go for it...just let me know about it in advance. You've been warned.

SAA Ep. #64: Springing Forward!

The cellular phone is a curious device.  I believe its original purpose was to allow a person to have the capability of moving around from location to location while talking to a person in a completely different location.  Now cell phones are smarter than people (doesn't take much, when you really think about it), and now it seems that the main use of a cell phone is to play Angry Birds or check Facebook. 

I don't have a smart phone.  In fact, I'm pretty sure my phone rode the short bus.  Okay, so that was a bit unfair.  My phone isn't THAT dumb.  It has a small texting keypad and the capability of doing a lot of really interesting things that require a data plan, which I do not have.  It's not my phone's fault it's dumb; it was just never afforded the opportunities that other phones have had.  It's a product of its environment--meaning its owner is cheap.  ...and also scared of phones that are smarter than humans.

Well, since I am generally stupid and suspicious when it comes to technology, I usually don't trust my phone to update itself whenever Daylight Savings Time comes around.  However, my phone has never ceased to automatically update.  So, this year, I decided I'd take a leap of faith and trust my phone.  I set my wake up alarms (yes I have more than one--about 15 of them actually--I usually finally get out of bed around the time the 12th one goes off) for their usual times, and then I went to sleep.

My roommate also trusted her cell phone.  That's important to note.  It's also important to note that my roommate needed to be at church an hour earlier than I did this morning.

I was not awoken by my phone's alarm.  I was awoken to the sound of my roommate fake cussing and rushing around the apartment.  Her phone alarm had not gone off.  Neither had mine. 

So, lesson learned.  Don't trust technology.  Phone clocks don't always automatically update to time changes.  Phone alarms don't always go off.  ...And one day robots will enslave us and make us into human batteries. 

But my evil cell phone's plans to ruin my day were thwarted.  Due to the extraordinary amount of rushing noise my roommate was making, I was woken up with sufficient time to get ready and go to church. 

Even if I had been late for church, that would not be enough to make me hate Daylight Savings Time.  Some people are DST haters, and well, I will let them hate.  It does stink to lose an hour, especially when you have kids and stuff.  But here's the way I see it....

Every autumn, I get mild seasonal depression (That's self-diagnosed, fyi.  I was a psychology minor, so that makes me perfectly qualified to make diagnoses of mood disorders, right?).  When the weather gets colder and the days get shorter, I get mildly depressed--which includes physical EXHAUSTION.  On the other hand, when spring comes around, bringing warmer weather and brighter sunshine, I feel more energized.  So yeah, I will GLADLY give up one hour now if it means that I can have it back in the autumn.  And even though it stinks to lose an hour, the bright side is that I only have to push the "set hour" button once on all my digital clocks.

...in the autumn, it's kind of a pain in the butt to have to press that set hour button eleven times.  And of course, I always get too into it and overshoot, which means I have to push it another eleven times.  One day I might sprain my finger.

Stupid technology.