Socially Awkward Girl's Guide to Life: an introduction

As my mother would have you know, I came out of the womb awkward. You were such a strange looking thing. Growing up, my strangeness was generally embraced and I reveled in my talent of making my parents laugh with my incessant chatter. But then I started pre-school, where my "teacher" (I'm pretty sure it was just some old lady with a house) didn't appreciate my imagination and neither did the idiotic 4 year olds. We started off every afternoon in a circle for story time, going around telling stories about our morning. If you've ever listened to a 4 year old try to follow a train of thought, you know what an unintelligible snooze-fest story time was. I tried to spice things up. My ingenuity was met with trouble, as the teacher eventually spoke to my mother IN FRONT OF MY CHUBBY INNOCENT FACE to say that I straight up made shit up during story time. In her sketchy preschool teacher eyes, it was time for an intervention. I was a little liar. I didn't have the vocabulary at the time to stand up for myself, but what I was thinking was: Bitch, you never specified that it was NONFICTION story time. Don't get it twisted.

On the drive home in our embarrassingly large grey van (as if being awkward and unpopular wasn't enough), my mom merely said, before turning the tape up, "Hanna, quit lying through your teeth," a phrase my 4 year old self had yet to hear, but was sure to repeat again and again while solidifying my status as the weird girl while I sat in the corner playing alone during subsequent play times at that hellhole called preschool. From that day on, I kept it real during story time, delighting my fellow four year olds with lame visions of me waking up, combing my bowl haircut, eating Crispy Rice (not even Rice Krispies!), and finding my hypoglycemic sister, yet again, eating fists full of sugar under the bed.

By the time I got to kindergarten, I felt ashamed of my doughy self enough times that I retreated inward and never said anything out loud in public again. I amused myself in my head, occasionally accidentally talking to myself out loud while walking alone in the playground as the other morons, I mean girls, pretended to be cheerleaders. My teacher had a conference with my mom and asked, "Does she talk at home? She never speaks in class." To which my mother roared with laughter as "Hanna, do you ever shut up?" was a common phrase in the household. I juggled two personas -- the painfully shy, socially awkward child at school and the strange, hyper loudmouth at home. This went on for years.

As a living, wheezing socially awkward success story, I have several books worth of solid, unsolicited advice to offer fellow spazzes. But Hanna, you have no friends.... And you write in a blog, you might say, to which I respond (in my head) through red cheeks, belieing my so called yet ephemeral success : Eff you, my husband is a hot doctor. I'm starting to write (again, in my head) The Socially Awkward Girl's Guide to Life, with topics ranging from Talking to Peers (Step One: Don't Say Peers) to Surviving Girl Scout Camp When You Look Like a Boy to Losing Your Virginity Before 30.

no shame

After a long holiday weekend, returning to work to watch old men starring at You Tube videos of Selena Gomez while helping others who refer to me as sweetie or mama post self portraits taken with phones in the public bathroom -- stalls, green tile, and all -- onto Plentyoffish.com is particularly cumbersome. *omgididntgotocollegeforthis*

Last night, before dozing off to sleep, Neno asked how much money I make a year. You married me for my money! We calculated that I make less than $15,000 per year. Way to ruin my night, babe. (However, let it be duly noted that I'm ever so grateful to have a job and a home. I may come off as a Complaining Cathy, but I appreciate what I gots).

Edfinancial would like me to jump through hoops to prove I can't afford my monthly loan payment. Sending my pay stubs and a letter from HR noting that I don't get paid shit -- her words, not mine -- wasn't enough. When I send them my pay stubs again with my tax info from last year (which was even worse) imma add an invitation to Take-Your-College-Loan-Officer-To-Work-Day. Like for realsies. I have a lot of unused creativity waiting for a craft project.

Skinny Coronarita

Forgive me if I slur my words. I'm on the verge of being plastered thanks to Bethenny Frankel. Lemme es-plain.

Pictures of something Texans refer to as a "Dosarita" have been popping up all over my Facebook news feed for months, as all of my alcoholic friends and family members back in San Antonio like to document the beginning of their nights -- for future reference, I suppose.

Because I live in Orlando (lame), I can't find a Dosarita (big ass margarita with a Dos Equis bottle inside) anywhere. There aren't many good Mexican restaurants here. Actually, there aren't many good Anythings here. Unless your name is Disney or Universal Studios or Major Tourist Attraction, the city of Orlando doesn't give a shit about you.

Anyhoo, I've taken matters into my own hands. I need this Dosarita in my life. And I don't even like margaritas....or beer. But something told me, the two together are alcohol bliss.

A few months ago, while I was in the liquor store for my weekly perusing, I asked the Pakistani owner if he had any Skinnygirl Margarita. He said, "Yes, yes!" as he enthusiastically walked me over to the Jose Cuervo margarita mix. Yeah, that's not it. Haven't you seen The Real Housewives on Bravo? I replied, and then went into a drawn out explanation of The Real Housewives of New York and Bethenny Getting Married and how I don't really like margaritas, "like at all, but I'm curious and want to support a home girl...without drinking too many calories."

Then two weeks ago, on my weekly liquor store perusing, I screamed, "He got it!" spotting the row of red capped Skinnygirl Margarita bottles. I couldn't buy any, though, because I was sure I was pregnant. I was just torturing myself in the liquor store. But this weekend, knowingly without child, I bought two bottles.

I'm delighted to report that I actually enjoy the Skinnygirl Margarita, although I generally hate tequila. My first and last time drinking tequila was out of a teacup (keepin' it classy) for a friend's pre-party 21st birthday party. The next day I laid in bed, occasionally running to the bathroom to vomit, next to my mother who was also miserably sick....from cancer. My dad took care of us. Isn't that cute?

Even better, I created my own knock-off Dosarita. It's Skinnygirl Margarita with Corona Light mixed in. I call it The Skinny Coronarita. Imma bottle it....post Real Apartment Wives of Orlando fame and after the success of my Poorbitch Cocktail, of course.




PS: Happy 4th of July. John Adams would be rul proud of me.

EDIT, a year later: If you came here to find out how many calories you drank last night and ended up reading that bullshit up there, my sincerest apologies. If you're still anxious to know how many tequila, sugar and beer calories you need to burn at the gym, I'll tell you here.