Let me tell you why.

Let me tell you why I call myself Blunderwoman. On the surface, it's a fun title, detailing that I do, in all truth, have adventures. And Dr. Menzer came up with the name all chocked full of paranomasia. But that's not the whole reason.

 It's not because I make simple mistakes; that would be too common. Anyone can do that.  I make precise mistakes. MY good intentions, even my BEST intentions are the polar opposite of what "should" be done at any certain, crucial moment.

My first memory of this negative superpower is from the second grade at Mars Hill Bible School. I was receiving some kind of help on an assignment or project--I don't even remember what--from Sandy C. I liked him. He had a swirly hairdo that started from a cowlick on the back of his head and moved seamlessly forward and around his ears--and this was before Beiber was in utero. AND his mom brought summer sausage for his birthday party that year on Kermit-The-Frog plates! To a girl who loves her muppets and would invite any part of a pig to the table, this guy was gold.

So what went wrong?  My superpower, that's what.

"Thanks," said I.
"What would you do without me?" said Sandy, half jokingly.
"Rejoice!" said I.

That's right. THAT was my response. I had just given Sandy the summer sausage bringer the seven-year-old-church-of-Christ equivalent to "Go screw yourself." And in his now-watery brown eyes I saw the reflection I would learn to fear to this day.

Oddly, I think of this experience so vividly and so frequently that it's unusual I hadn't attributed it to my superpower before now.  Sadly, it's not a lone occurence.

Another vivid example happened in the high school years--okay MANY happened in the high school years, but this one demonstrates the precision of my craft.  My brother and I were in Big Lots (or as hoarders call it "Mecca.") This was our fourth attempt to find gardening gloves to suit my child-sized hands.  They just don't make gloves in XXS that can handle a weed-eater. We were shuffling from aisle to aisle, finally pinpointing a cardboard taco-shaped-hanger-thingy for small, womens' gardening gloves. It contained ONE glove. One. In my frustration, and not taking time to scope out my surroundings I exclaimed "Well, that would be GREAT if I just had ONE HAND!"

My brother did not laugh as I had expected.  I would have noticed the silence more if he hadn't been dragging me fervently around the corner to the shampoo aisle.  Out of breath and quite confused, I asked what the problem was. He responded, white of face, and with as much disgrace as I have seen my brother wear, "There was a guy with one arm standing right beside you!"

A one-armed man. In Big Lots. In Florence, AL. At THAT moment when I found a single gardening glove. It's that powerful a superpower.

So, for those of you that know me, or those of you who happen to read from afar, know that you are not safe.  When you've just gained four pounds on a botched attempt at the Atkins diet, I will ask about your cholesterol levels in a concerned way that will sound condescending.  If you've just broken up with your significant other, I will ask you if you hear wedding bells. If your husband has just moved out, I will ask you if I should save a seat for him in Bible class (It really happened. Recently.)

And having acknowleged that you are all possible victims, I do want to empower you by letting you know your enemy more fully, and the weapons she carries.  So far I've come up with "The Helmet of Awkwardness" which makes everyone around let go of that tiny shart they've been holding in since lunch. There's also the "Glove of Umbrage" which turns a well-meaning Dr. Phil-esque touch on the arm into a baggage-inducing wave of condescention. And then the devilish duo: "Fun-House Mirror of Perception" and "Don't Push This Button! Button" Of course upon seeing your pain in the Fun-House Mirror of Perception, I see things backwards and I push the button.  With alarming accuracy.

This, like most blogs, is enough shame for one day. Endeavor to be otherwise.