There’s been a lot of talk about introverts this week, maybe so much so that you’re sick of reading about it.

You should skip this post then.

Still with me? Awesome.

As I was heading home today, I ran into a guy that I don’t know very well, but who seems quite comfortable talking to me. I know this because tonight he chatted at with me for forty minutes straight. The first few minutes weren’t bad, but for most of the duration of the time, I stood there shifting my weight from leg to leg, waiting for the opportunity to bolt to my car. As the sun began to set and the monologue conversation continued (complete with long awkward silences), I thought, “God, I wish he’d shut up.”

Usually I’m that guy.

Have you ever been talking to someone and you can tell they’re smiling to be polite when they’re clearly beginning to feel bored/uncomfortable/homicidal and it makes you so nervous that you keep talking even though your brain is screaming, “Shut up! Please, stop. You’re making an ass of yourself!”

Or have you noticed that whenever you’re in a group of people and you’re right in the middle of saying something a couple folks will begin a conversation right over you and no one seems to notice (nor care) that you were interrupted even as you trail off awkwardly, stare at your shoes, and wonder why you were so stupid as to speak at all?

Or do you secretly feel foolish for having a blog because you honestly can’t imagine that anyone would ever read it or be interested in anything you have to say?

That would be me.

Long ago I realized that I do not possess the type of dynamic personality that draws in other people and commands their complete attention. No, I was the little girl that didn’t have any friends. I was the classmate who was chosen last for everything and was generally ignored. I was the kid who never had a “real” birthday party because my mother truly feared that no one would show up.

As such, I developed an abysmal sense of self-esteem and became severely introverted.

When I read about bloggers meeting each other and attending kick-ass events like TequilaCon, part of me burns to do the same. But then I start to worry “What if they don’t like me?” “What if I can’t think of anything to say?” “What if they don’t want to hear what I have to say?” And then I remember that if I’m around more than two people at a time I completely shut down. By then I have an anxiety attack just thinking about it, so I stay home and curse that I couldn’t be a social butterfly like my sister.

You know what? It sucks. And it’s time to do something about it.

The Captain is going to a party this weekend and he wants me to come. Usually I’d feign a serious case of ebola or dysentery or something to get out of it. But for once I’m going to force myself to go. And this time I’m not going to sit in the corner, practically under the Captain’s chair. In fact, I’m going to make an effort to participate in conversation. I’m going to smile and attempt to actually have fun.

I’m not playing Charades though.

I’ve gotta draw the line somewhere.

Ok, yes, she dies before the end of the novel anyway, but my point is I hate spiders.

I wasn’t always this way. There was a time when I was a curious child gleefully capturing arachnids in the name of scientific inquiry. I’m not entirely sure when my image of spiders transformed from marvels of nature to the most terrifying creatures on the face of the earth. Although . . . there was that time when I was still quite young that my sister snuck up behind me and threw ants in my hair. She told me that I was covered with deadly poisonous spiders possessing venom so lethal that a single bite would kill me instantly. I violently shook the insects from my hair, screaming and hyperventilating, certain of impending death. I was insane with panic and utterly inconsolable.

That could have done it.

This paralyzing fear, coupled with an allergy to spider bites, has forced me to become The Reluctant Spider Slayer. If I were a stronger person, the spiders and I could live together in peace. Unharmed, they would continue to run around my shower, hide in my bathrobe, and attempt to descend onto my head while I brush my hair. The bathroom would remain their haven, and I would allow them to cavort about happily as spiders are wont to do. They would enjoy racing up and down the mirror, and I would endure it safe in the knowledge that they would no longer nibble me into grotesque deformity.

However, every time God blows the breath of Life into a speck of dust, animating it with eight legs, a bulbous butt, and more eyes than I care to know about, primal fear takes over and I smash that sucker flat. How I have been lectured for my cruelty! “They’re more afraid of you than you are of them,” I’ve been told.

Clearly these people have never seen me ambush a somewhat spider-like bit of lint with a plunger and a can of Raid (because my eyesight isn’t spectacular and you can never be too careful).

But whether I wage war on an actual arachnid or a piece of sweater lint doing a very good spider impression (lint is more resilient to attack, but moves more slowly than real spiders), I do feel an overwhelming sense of guilt for eradicating the creature from my living area.

Which is why I just had the Captain smoosh one for me.

One of the most obvious signs that you’ve gone from merely dating to finding yourself in a relationship is the introduction of your “pet name.”

I’ve had a couple over the years — “Sweetness,” “Bubbles,” “Apple Blossom” — and subsequently developed a theory as to why men feel the need to nickname their women.

I believe that the desire to re-name one’s girlfriend stems from the Biblical tradition of Adam naming all the plants and animals, thus asserting his position as owner and caretaker of everything. He names Eve, claiming her as his (not that there was supposed to be anyone else to dispute that with) and his dazzling show of authority is complete.

So now when a man decides that he intends to spend some significant time with you, you are rewarded with the cheesy nickname. Get used to it, because he will call you by that name all the time, and expect you to answer to it. Sure, he’ll pass it off as trying to be cute, but you can bet that when you hear, “I’m going to call you Peachy. Isn’t that sweet?” it’s mentally followed by, “And you can call me Lord and Master.”

If you haven’t had a look at your calendar lately, let me remind you that today is the last day of April. Which means it is also the last day to make donations to The Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network (RAINN) on behalf of the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign 2008. I’d like to personally thank those of you who took the time to read my GBBMC posts and also those who offered words of support and encouragement in response to my last story.

And remember, just because the GBBMC ‘08 is coming to a close doesn’t mean you can’t continue to support RAINN’s cause. Thanks again for helping to make a difference. I hope we’ve done Carly proud!

DONATE TO RAINN HERE. If you’re feeling especially generous, please mention the GBBMC:08 and my name & blog in the “donation in honor of” field. Thanks for your support!

Woman sitting behind me to her friend: My mother, God! I can’t even explain to you how she can be. Jesus Christ could come down off the cross for her, walk into her living room, and she would say, “Jesus! You’re getting blood on the carpet!”