Switching over to Tumblr

Okay guys, it's official: Every Awkward Thing I've Ever Done is moving to Tumblr.

Thanks to every one who was reading this!!  All the old blog posts will still be up at Tumblr.

Follow me there at: http://everyawkwardthing.tumblr.com/

Thanks!!

Today's Moment of Awkward: Massage Rape

I'm in a spa, on a massage table, totally naked, and a somewhat unhappy Russian woman is about to give me a massage.  For some reason I feel the need to impress her.  Okay, I'll admit it, I'm at Burke Williams, and when I'm at Burke Williams they always make me feel guilty for not coming to Burke Williams more often.  "You're shoulders are so tight, you really should get a massage at least twice a month.  Also you should probably get this hunchback checked out, Quasimodo."  So, as in most of my encounters, I feel the need to lie.  The problem here is, I apparently have no idea what answer this gruff Russian woman wants.  It's like I'm being interrogated with soothing music and gentle caresses.

Angry Russian Woman: When was the last time you had a massage?

Me: Umm, probably like two months.  (This is a lie, it's been at least a year.  I'm not made of money, or Burke Williams gift certificates.)

ARW: Good.

Okay, this comes as a surprise.  Usually they tell me two months is much too long.

ARW: Do you exercise?

Me: Oh yes, I exercise everyday.  (Maybe twice a week).

ARW: Do you do yoga?

Me: Yes!  (Kind of...)

ARW:  Hmph.  That is bad.

I'm really struggling here to make this woman proud of me and I'm getting nothing in return.

ARW:  When was the last time you saw a chiropractor?

Me:  Yesterday.  Tomorrow.  (By now I'm totally flustered, so I go with the truth.)  I have never seen a chiropractor.

ARW:  Hmmm.  That is good.

WHAT??  For the rest of the massage I listen to every sigh, every grunt of dissatisfaction, every openly judgmental mumble.  What does this woman want from me?  There is something not at all relaxing about being judged by a ex-KGB officer.

To make this spa visit even more awkward, I'm in the dressing room and another woman touches me while I'm completely naked.  Not in like a "point out on this doll where she touched you" kind of way, she just grabbed by arm as I was getting dressed.  But regardless, you are not allowed to touch anyone is a communal dressing room, especially when they are completely naked.  I almost screamed RAPE at the top of my lungs.

It turns out the reason for the inappropriate touch was so that she could ask me about a tattoo on my ribcage.

Touchy Woman:  I'm getting a tattoo today and that's where I want to get it but they told me it's the most painful place to get a tattoo.  How was it?

Me:  How well do you handle pain?

TW:  I used to be a professional female fighter.

Me:  RAPE

I think I may be too awkward for the spa.

Today's Moment of Awkward: Savage Garden at the 8th Grade Dance

Let me set the scene.  It's 1998.  It's the last dance of the 8th grade.  I am dancing with my 8th grade boyfriend, who is pretty much my first real boyfriend since my Dad thought my 6th grade boyfriend was a kid I was babysitting.  Truly Madly Deeply by Savage Garden comes on which means we'll have to slow dance.  It's awkward.  It's like I have too many feet and my breath is probably bad and why are our faces so close and what do I look at GOD WHAT DO I LOOK AT?!  He's not saying anything and I'm not saying anything and it's so horrible.  So I say the first thing that comes to mind.  I quote a line from the song that I had always found odd.

Me:  I want to bathe with you in the sea?

He didn't hear the question mark.  Why didn't he hear the question mark??

8th Grade Boyfriend: You do?

Me:  No, no.  It's the song.

8th Grade Boyfriend: The song wants to bathe me?

Me: No!

8th Grade Boyfriend: I'm going to go get a drink. 

What I Want To Be When I Grow Up: Puppy Maker

Everybody has that weird thing they wanted to be when they grew up: Cowboy, Astronaut, Ballerina, Superhero, Taxi Driver, Stripper, or whatever.  Mine was dog breeder.  I mean who doesn't want a job that involves tons and tons of puppies?  Only the devil, that's who.

When I was two years old my dog had twelve puppies, and I thought I was one of them.  I napped with them, I drank my bottle while they drank from my dog's tits, I rode them around like little ponies (okay, some of this sounds a little f-ed up, but it was cute, I swear).  So at 13 I convinced my parents it was time for more puppies.

I bought a book on dog breeding, I bought a little notebook and made a checklist of everything I would need. 

Obviously the first step was to get my dog, Coco (named after Coca Cola, with which I had a weird obsession), to bang another dog.  This seems like the easiest part BUT IT IS NOT.  First we paid $50 for a male dog to be dropped off at our house so they could mate.  Basically they ran around our back yard for hours while the male dog tried to hump Coco and she tried to tell him "No means no".  Then they somehow got into the house while I had friends over and ran around the house humping each other.  This is how my friend Pete found out that he is allergic to dog sperm.  I shit you not.  (I have a feeling you would like me to go into more details about how he learned this, but I will leave it up to your imagination.  Hint: Pete did not have sex with a dog.)

But after all that, Coco still wasn't pregnant.  So we paid $250 to drop her off with a professional breeder.  The breeder's dog was named Pepsi, which is just clearly fate,  and voila... tummy full of puppies.  Like a good little girl, I waited patiently for the puppies to come out of her vagina.  And one day I received a call at school that one had.  My mother told me to come home right away and witness the miracle of birth.

But that didn't happen because by the time I got home she'd already given birth to two puppies and it looked like that might be all she wrote.  Finally, after an hour and a half, I went out to get something to eat.  When I came back there were still no more puppies, so that was that.  The smallest litter ever.  We kept one of the puppies, and sold the other one to our neighbors for $50, leaving me like $400 in the hole.  Our seemingly nice neighbors turned that poor puppy into a crazed nightmare of a dog and I've always felt guilty for that.

But that's not really all.  Years later I found out that when I went out to get something to eat my dog had given birth to a third puppy.  This is some soap opera shit, right?  What happened, you wonder, did the puppy come back as a full grown dog and challenge the other puppy's claim to the family ranch?  No.  That didn't happen.  Here's what happened:

I had a dream that my mom had octuplets and that Coco ate one of them.  I told my mom.  

Mom:  Oh, probably because Coco ate one of her puppies.

Me: Say WHAT?!

Mom: Did I never tell you that? 

That's right, Coco ATE that puppy.  She ATE HIM.  And probably by accident.  My mom said Coco was licking the amniotic sac off the puppy and then suddenly it was gone.  Coco looked at my mom with sad doggy eyes that seemed to say "Ooops. My bad."

That is when I learned I definitely could not be a professional dog breeder.  I set my sights on something a little more realistic: Vampire Hunter.

Today's Moment of Awkward: The Non-Existent Affair

During my Sophomore year of college I had a writing teacher who was new to teaching.  It was his first year at NYU and we spent most of our classes watching his student films and his single, unimpressive feature.  The rest of the time he spent flirting with several of the female (and possibly a few of the male) students, including myself.  It wasn't really creepy flirting, it was sort of fatherly flirting.  Wow, did I just say fatherly flirting like that's a real thing that isn't creepy?  Okay, scratch that.  Like your older brother's friend flirting with you.  I never had an older brother but I assume it's not too creepy.  It was like "Okay, we both know nothing is going to happen, I'm not really flirting with you, we're just sort of joking around".  That is until he pulled me over after class one day.

Teacher: (In a conspiratorial whisper) I saw you this weekend.  On Mulberry Street.

Me:  (Not getting why we're whispering)  Oh, yeah.  That's where I live.

Teacher:  You were carrying some plastic bags.

Me:  (Still not getting why we're whispering)  They were probably groceries.

Teacher: (Still in a creepy whisper) Yeah.  Groceries.

Imagine someone saying "Yeah.  Groceries." as if it's a code for something dirty.  I can tell you it's not pleasant.

Me:  So why didn't you just say hi?


By this point we were the only people left in the classroom, but he still scanned the room like we were in a spy movie and someone might be watching us.  


Teacher:  I was with my wife.


I suddenly started to get why we were whispering.  Did he think we were having an affair?  Did he think he was having an affair with all his female (and possibly a few male) students?  

Yet somehow I wasn't grossed out by him, I just felt bad for him.  I thought back through all of our classes and realized he'd peaked.  Probably in college.  Maybe showing us his student films and flirting with his students was his only way of reliving his glory days.  Then again, maybe he was just super creepy.  Either way I didn't stick around to find out.


Me:  Hehe, okay, cool, well see you next week.


And thus ended the affair that never started.  It's the closest I've ever come to a Pacey/Ms. Jacobs relationship and I'm okay with that.

Life Lesson Learned: Never Have Your Bachelorette Party The Day Before The Wedding

If only "The Hangover" had come out yet, perhaps my friend Kumquat (the same Kumquat from the Chlamydia story, she didn't really die, and she did get married, but not to Santiago) would have realized what a bad idea it is to have the bachelorette party the night before the wedding.  

A few years after high school Kumquat met her future husband and moved to Palm Springs, which is where they had their wedding.  Since I conveniently lived in LA I was invited to the Bachelorette part and I considered going... until I got a new job and couldn't take the time off.  If I believed in fate this is when I would have realized that fate fucking loves me.

Two of my high school friends flew in to LA and I met up with them to drive to Palm Springs.  We hadn't heard from Kumquat in a while so halfway there we started texting her, asking for the address of the hotel, etc.  No response.  But brides are busy, that's to be expected right?  We found the hotel, checked in, and were really starting to worry when we finally got a response.  From her sister.  "Kumquat has been in accident.  She's fine.  See you at the wedding."

It turns out Kumquat's sister's definition of fine was very different from mine.  Here's the real story:

Kumquat had rented a party bus for her bachelorette party.  The plan was for everyone to get on the bus at 6pm (seriously?  6pm?!  why not just start at 3 and be back in time for the early bird dinner?  these girls really know how to party.) drive around for a little while and party on the bus, then do a pub crawl.  That plan didn't really work out because at 6:30pm the party bus was rear-ended by a 16-wheeler truck.  One of the girls broke the stripper pole with her face.  Try explaining that injury to your parents, or your friends, or a stranger at the bank.  It's not easy, I've tried.  Another girl was hit in the head by a fallen TV monitor.    Kumquat, however, got it worst.  She was propelled face first into the seat in front of her.  She broke her jaw in 14 places.  The night before her wedding.

There's more to this story.  The poor girl's face was swollen for the wedding, she couldn't eat anything and she was on painkillers the whole time.  That weekend there was also a lot of drama between my high school friends and we ended up not talking for a long time after that.  But I think the lesson is learned: NEVER EVER EVER HAVE YOUR BACHELORETTE PARTY THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING.

Today's Moment of Awkward: Adventures at the DMV

Taking your driver's test is a scary and awkward time for everyone.  But a lot more so when you take it in the ghetto.  I'm not sure why I chose a DMV in a bad part of town to take the test, but I can only assume it was so that I would have this experience:

I get into my dad's Ford Explorer with an early-20s DMV employee and he instantly started hitting on me.  

DMV Guy:  So... you like to party?

Seriously?  Is this an episode of To Catch a Predator?  Who straight off asks a 16-year-old girl if she likes to party?  He could have at least come up with something more original like "So... do you like to sleep with DMV employees?"

Me:  I guess...

DMV Guy:  Yeah, me too.  I LOVE to party.  Take a left here.

He went on to tell me that he'd only been working at the DMV for a few months but it was "pretty cool."  He also informed me when he got off work, in case, I don't really know why actually, in case I wanted to meet him back here?  He was pretty vague.  If you're going to hit on underage girls you really need to get your act together and come up with a specific plan.  

This whole time I was trying to concentrate on my driving.  Check rearview mirror.  Check side mirrors.  Look both ways before pulling out of the driveway.  Don't speed!  He, however, did not appear to be paying attention to my driving at all.  That is, until I came to a screeching stop.

DMV Guy:  What'd you do that for?

I pointed to the one-legged man hobbling across the middle of the street.  When he got to the other side he started to climb a chain link fence.  You'd think it would be hard to climb a fence with one leg, but this guy had it down to a science.  My mouth dropped open.  I had no words.  This was one of the strangest things I had ever seen.

DMV Guy:  Oh, yeah, that.  Happens all the time.  Turn right at the next light.

IT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME?  IN WHAT WORLD DOES A ONE LEGGED MAN RUNNING ACROSS THE STREET AND CLIMBING A CHAIN LINK FENCE HAPPEN ALL THE TIME?!?!?

Still a little shaky I continued on and took a right at the next light.

Back at the DMV I received my score.  I got a 90.

Me:  What did you take ten points off for?

DMV Guy:  You didn't come to a complete stop at that one stop sign.

Me:  We were being chased by what I can only assume were zombies.

DMV Guy: That was just an army of hobos.  And you still didn't stop.

I ended up getting my license and never returning to that DMV ever again.  I believe they've since turned it into a halfway house for one-legged men and zombie hobos.

Someone Else's Awkward: Too Fat To Fold

I was talking to someone over the weekend about my skin-head-attack-victim Halloween costume and it reminded me of a story my Nan once told me.  Now "Nan" is not the name I use for my grandmother, as most people assume, but what I called my nanny, Lenore.  And let's be honest, Nan for nanny makes way more sense Nan for grandma.  Just saying.

Anyway, my Nan was a four foot ten, 250 pound Guatemalan woman who was my family's housekeeper from the time I was six months old until I left for college.  She was an unashamedly very fat woman.  Imagine what that looks like.  No, you know what, here's a photo:

One day she was at the laundromat doing her laundry (because what else would you do at the laundromat?  Unless your that homeless guy in my neighborhood who goes to the laundromat to sleep on top of the dryers because they're so nice and warm... Wow, that got really depressing.  I'm just kidding, he actually goes there to masturbate.  But I digress.) and a woman came up to her and offered to help her fold.  My Nan assumed it was just a kind gesture, which is where she made her first mistake.  

Laundromat Woman: So... you must be pretty tired.

Nan: ... No, I'm fine.

Laundromat Woman:  Is it okay for you to be on your feet like this?

Nan:  ... I don't know what else I would stand on.

Laundromat Woman:   Hahaha.  But can't your husband do this for you?

Nan:  He's at work.

Laundromat Woman:  Ahh, isn't that always the way.

My Nan was getting suspicious of Laundromat Woman's intentions by this point but didn't really know what to do about it.  Then this happened:

Laundromat Woman: So... When are you due?  You look like you're ready to pop any day now.

Nan:  Oh, I'm not pregnant.  I'm just fat.

This is where she made her second mistake.  She should have lied.  But let's give credit to my Nan here, because she didn't really look pregnant.  She looked, just like she said, fat.  Proportionately fat.  So unless parts of the baby were growing in her arms and legs as well it didn't really make sense to assume she was pregnant.  But the Laundromat Woman didn't see it that way.  She threw down the rest of my Nan's laundry and glared at her.

Laundromat Woman:  Then why were you letting me fold your laundry?!

Nan: I thought you were just being nice.

Laundromat Woman:  I was being nice!!  But it was wasted... on just a fat person.

My Nan just shrugged and went back to folding her own laundry, which is why I love her.  The lesson here is always be suspicious when someone offers to help you.

Coming to LA, Part III: Cool After Hours Bar or THE WORST THING THAT HAS HAPPENED TO ME EVER

This is what my coming to LA stories have all been leading up to.  This is it.  This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me.

When I came to LA for the summer I had just turned 21, but my best friend hadn't yet.  Imagine how much that sucked, having only recently turned 21, being in a new city with tons of exciting bars... but not being able to go out.  Finally, about 2/3 of the way into our stay, Brandice* had her 21st birthday.  And we went ape shit.  It was like we were dying of thirst, but our thirst was for jager bombs.  We were going to take Hollywood by storm, starting with Sunset Strip.

Our first night out in LA we had a demure, sophisticated night out (read: boring) at Chateau Mormont.  The next night we got a little rowdier.  We hit up a bar called Red Rock.

We met a couple of guys, we had a couple of drinks and before we knew it... closing time.  But that's okay.  This is LA.  The guys knew of a cool "after hours bar".  I had only had two drinks so I drove and the guys climbed into the back of my '98 Mustang Convertible (rocking, I know).  They directed us to a bar that I now know as The Frolic Room.  We had a drink, but it turns out it wasn't actually an after hours bar, so after our one drink we were quickly ushered out.  But that's okay, this is LA.  They knew of ANOTHER cool "after hours bar".

Brandice was getting increasingly wasted and I was starting to wish we could just ditch the guys and go home.  But we were supposed to be taking the world by storm!  So I let the guys direct me to our next location.  I drove and I drove and I drove, and the neighborhood got weirder and weirder and more residential.  

And then we were there.  Except we weren't anywhere.  We were on a street of crappy looking homes in what at the time I assumed was Compton, but now know was most likely just West LA (yes those places are absolutely nowhere near each other, but other then my apartment and my internship I had no idea where anything was) .  The guys got out of the car and headed for one of the homes.  I tried to grab Brandice's arm before she followed them, but I couldn't catch her in time.  Either way she did not seem concerned that we were most likely going to die tonight.

An old black man opened the door a crack and I think, although I may have added this into my memory for effect, asked for a password.  The door was locked with one of those chain locks that you only find in hotel rooms and apartments where people get murdered a lot.  He closed the door, drew back the lock, and ushered us in.  Then he locked the door behind us.  With a key.

Right by the door there were several very large men playing poker around a table, smoking some of the largest joints I've ever seen.  We passed by them and over to a wooden bar in the next room.  It was the kind of bar your dad would have set up in his basement den for when his friends come over to watch football, not the kind of bar where you order $2 MGDs from an 80 year old man with gold capped teeth.  And yet that's exactly what we did.  The guys led us to a table in the corner by a large juke box and we sat.  By this point I was terrified.  I couldn't speak, or move, or tear out my hair and scream for help.  I was frozen like a statue.

And that's when the girls came out.  They strutted out in single file from what I can only assume was one of the house's bedrooms.  And there was no denying it.  They were prostitutes.  This cool "after hours bar" was, in reality, a brothel.  And not a nice fancy brothel like you read about in Game of Thrones, or even a kind of cheesy brothel like in that reality show about Las Vegas brothels.  This was a brothel where half of the hookers were missing teeth and are more than willing to let you pee on them for the right price.

(Not at all like this picture)

It wasn't until one of the girls took a seat on the guy next to me's lap that I jumped up from the table.  Without a word I grabbed Brandice's arm and pulled her towards the door.  Which was locked.  We were trapped.  The large men at the poker table were staring at us.  I am very surprised that I didn't piss my pants at this point.  Then the 80 year old man appeared and unlocked the door.  I literally sprinted for my car.  The guys tried to follow us but I turned into Ryan Gosling in Drive and sped away, hopefully spewing gravel in their faces.

After that we had a lot of demure, sophisticated (read: boring) nights out, and I was totally fine with that.

Coming to LA, Part II: How to be an Impressive Intern

Before I got to LA I applied for several internships.  One was at Toby Maguire's production company and part of the interview process was writing coverage on a script.  That's normal enough except that as part of the coverage I had to write whether or not I thought it would be a good movie for Toby to star in.  The script I read was about a wrongfully imprisoned convict who escapes and seeks vengeance on the people who framed him while trying to hide from the police who are chasing him down.  I could tell that Toby Maguire wanted to do this script,  he wanted to change his image, he wanted to be seen as tough.  So I should have just said "Yes, Toby would be amazing in this."  But I couldn't.  (I think this may have been right before Spiderman came out, but even if I'd seen Spiderman it still wouldn't change my mind)  Toby Maguire just does not strike me as a bad ass escaped con.  He's more like an sociopathic librarian.  Needless to say, I did not get that internship.

 

The internship I did get was at a British production company that had made many of my favorite films.  They only accepted three interns for the summer program at their LA office and I was incredibly proud to have landed such an awesome internship.  I later found out that I had been chosen because the assistant who interviewed me really liked my necklace and thought I seemed "cool" (God knows how she got that impression).  Regardless I wanted to make a good impression.  So when they sent me on my first "run" (errand) I tried to be prompt.  They sent me to a hardware store to get a key copied.  Sounds easy enough.  Not for me.

The offices were located one block from Santa Monica Blvd and the address of the hardware store was only a few hundred off from our address.  In New York that meant it was only a few blocks away.  What with parking the way it is in LA I figured it would be faster to walk than drive.  I would be wrong.  It was two miles away.

I started out walking peacefully along Santa Monica Blvd.  It was a nice day, I was in LA, loving life.  But as each block passed I started to notice I wasn't getting any closer to the hardware store.  I started to walk a little faster.  I was wearing cute flip flops, not really meant for long walks, but I ignored the pain.  Still no hardware store.  I started to run.  Now in LA people look at you funny even if you're just walking, but girls running down the street, sweating profusely in "casual professional" attire definitely draw attention.  Cars were honking at me.  My feet were bleeding.  I took off my shoes and started running barefoot.  

That's when the office started calling me.  I ignored the first call, but after they'd called five times I had to answer.

Production Company Assistant: Where the hell are you?  It should have taken you ten minutes to do this and you've been gone half an hour.

Me: My car went to the place but the parking is bad and they ran out of keys and there was an accident and  zombies attacked and it's the Apocalypse...

Production Company Assistant: Whatever.  Get back here NOW.

I finally arrived at the hardware store.  It took them about 3 seconds to make the copy.  If I had driven it would have taken me all of five minutes.  But now I still needed to walk back.

When I got back to the office I was sweating, dirty, there were twigs in my hair (not sure how that happened) and my feet were bleeding.  It had taken me over an hour to get a key copied and everyone at the office thought I was mentally ill.  And that's how you impress people at your internship.

Coming to LA, Part I: He Offered Me The Crack Pipe

In between Junior and Senior year of college I decided to do an internship in LA.  My high school best friend accompanied me, not to do an internship, just for the experience of living somewhere different (and because I begged her to as I HATE BEING ALONE AND ALSO HATE MEETING NEW PEOPLE).  We found an apartment in Westwood to sublet from two UCLA students, but unfortunately we wouldn't be able to move in until a week after my internship started.  In the interim my Dad found a "rent by the week" hotel at which we could stay.  He looked up pictures online and said it looked nice.  At the time I was not worldly enough to know that "rent by the week" was code for crack den, but I soon learned my lesson.

These were the actual pictures on the website:



This is what it looked like in real life:

(Okay, that's technically a photo of a prison, but you get the idea.)

There was a tiny bed with springs sticking out, a dirty sink on one wall and a TV bolted to the ceiling.  The showers were down the hall from us and creepy old men would stand out in the hall and lecherously watch us walk back to our room in our towels.  There was a sign posted outside the building that said "NO VISITORS" which we didn't really understand when we moved in.  Later we learned that rule existed so that hookers wouldn't bring their tricks here.  But none of this alerted us to the fact that we were living in a crack den.

Even the "communal back patio" didn't scare us off:

But then one day I was walking to the bathroom and noticed our neighbors' door was open.  Now we were pretty familiar with our neighbors because we could hear them through our wall.  This was partly because the walls were made of cardboard and partly because they were constantly screaming at each other.  But there was one aspect of their lives that we were not familiar with.  They were crack heads.  They were smoking a crack pipe with the door open and absolutely no one cared because... EVERYONE THERE WAS A CRACK HEAD.  Suddenly it was like my life was flashing before my eyes.  I remembered all the missing teeth I'd seen, the fact that everyone seemed jittery, the used syringes on the "communal patio".  Then we made eye contact and he offered me the crack pipe.  HE OFFERED ME THE CRACK PIPE.

So what was a girl to do but shout: "No!  No means no!" run to the bathroom and lock myself in.  That night we slept in the car and two days later we moved into our legitimate apartment.  But at least we had our first LA Experience.  We could cross live in a crack den off the bucket list.

Today's Moment of Awkward: My Beautiful Cervix

Going to the gynecologist is pretty much always awkward.  You're in a cold room, in a tiny dressing gown and some woman (preferable, I can't even imagine how awkward it is with a man) is fondling your breasts and poking things into your vag (yeah, I said vag).  But sometimes it's more awkward than usual.

My gynecologist came into the room, asked me the normal questions, then told me to lie down and spread my legs.

Gyno: Sorry, the implement warmer is broken in this room so this is going to be more uncomfortable than usual.  Hahaha.

Umm, maybe it's just me but that doesn't seem funny.  Is this what torture feels like?  I don't want to get too graphic here so let's just say she used the cold implements and it is, as promised, even more uncomfortable than usual.

Gyno:  On the plus side, you have a beautiful cervix.

Me:  I hear that a lot.

This she doesn't find funny.

Me: It's actually been called the Mona Lisa of cervixes.

Gyno:  Please remove your top so I can check your breasts for lumps.

Me: Yes, ma'am.


P.S.  Let's try to ignore the fact that the above picture is from a movie about a girl with teeth in her vagina.

Today's Moment of Awkward: ID Photos Are Bad For a Reason

I hand the bouncer my ID.

Bouncer: Wow, this is a really good picture of you.

Me: Yeah, for an ID photo it's great.

Bouncer: Not just for an ID photo. (He eyes me)  This is a really good picture of you, period.

Me: Ok.  I get it.

Bouncer:  You don't even really look like this.

Me: Thanks.  Thanks a lot.

Life Lesson Learned: I Am Not A Prima Ballerina

I would like to start this out with something that sounds pretty vain: I have a dancers body.  Now let me clarify. I have the body of a dancer who gave up on her dream of dancing at least ten years ago and has since let herself go.  But at one point, probably around age 14, I had a dancer's body.  And to me that means I am secretly a prima ballerina trapped inside the mind of a total klutz.  That is why there were several years where whenever I got bored I would try to give off the vibe that I was a ballerina until someone asked about it.  That sounds super weird, but in reality it was super duper weird.

Freshman year of college we had to help out for a certain amount of hours on Junior and Senior films.  Since I had no technical skills yet this meant that I mostly carried stuff and then stood around.  So I pretended to be a ballerina.  Whenever I was just standing around I would do it in second position.  Sometimes I would put my foot on my leg, kind of like Tree pose in Yoga.  Do ballerinas even do that?  Who knows.  Finally one of the upperclassmen asked me if I was a dancer.

Me: What?  No.  HAHAHA.  Why would you think that?  WHY?

Upperclassman:  Ummmmm....

So when I heard that a ballet style workout class was becoming popular I had to try it.  In LA Cardio Barre is to the 2010s what Jazzersize was to... when was jazzersize?  was it even a real thing?  Anyway...  there was a groupon deal for ten classes, so of course I snatched it up.  Now I can have pretty good posture when I want to but my hand-eye-coordination and ability to remember choreography are nonexistent.  Most people who have taken a Cardio Barre class would say "That's fine Jessie, you don't need really need those skills for Cardio Barre".  To those people I say "You have underestimated my lack of skills".  Even after five classes I was consistently a beat behind everyone when they changed positions.  Still, in my mind at least, I was rocking it.  I was somehow sure the people next to me were like "This girl must have a background in dance."  It turns out they were not.

There was an older lady, probably in her 50s or 60s next to me, and in all reality she probably did have a background in dace.  (Bitch.)  And so throughout the entire class she decided it was her job to teach me what I was doing wrong.  (Bitch.)  Now I'm sure she had the best intentions (bitch) but she came off as a total bitch (bitch).

Old Dancer:  You should straighten your leg more.

Me: (silent hatred)

Old Dancer:  You're arching your back too much.

Me: (silent hatred)

At one point she started touching me and trying to realign my body.  DO NOT TOUCH ME!  YOU ARE NOT THE TEACHER, is what I screamed inside my head.  Outwardly I forced a smile and a seriously passive aggressive "thank you".

After 60 minutes of this class was over and I was ready to kill somebody.  I tried to make a quick getaway without eye contact, but the old dancer foiled that plan.  She tapped me on the shoulder.  I only didn't punch her because she's old and also because I don't know how to punch.

Old Dancer:  I'm sorry if I was being intrusive.

Me:  Yeah, I mean, you're not the teacher, so...

Old Dancer looked PISSED.

Old Dancer:  Well no, but I take this class a lot.

Me: Then why are you still in Beginner?

Old Dancer: (hmph)  I was just trying to help.

Now Old Dancer looks on the verge of tears.  I'm beginning to wish I had punched her instead.  How did I turn into the bad guy here?  What if this is all she has in her life?  Correcting people at Cardio Barre is the only way she can feel superior at something.  And now I've ruined it.

Life lesson learned: I am not a prima ballerina.

Today's Moment of Awkward: Community Service Family Reunion

Two years ago I was sentenced to do two days of community service.  I'm not going to tell you what for (a girl has to have her secrets), but suffice it to say out of all the people I met there I had far and away the shortest sentence.  Most people were serving 30 to 60 days, often for drunk driving.  There was another boy who as a fraternity prank had been commanded to set a palm tree on fire.  When he was caught his fraternity brothers abandoned him and he was expelled from school.  He was pretty bitter about it.  There was a very quiet girl who was serving 300 days, a totally unheard of penalty.  She was the center of a lot of the community service gossip.  What had she possibly done?  I had no beef with her because she helped me pick out a prime trash-picker-upper-thingy, but I can't say I wasn't curious.  Eventually I found out that she had been the get-away-driver in a convenience store robbery.  She was supposed to do jail time but she was pregnant at the time and the baby daddy was the one who planned the robbery, so they let her off with community service after she gave birth.  Let's just say, I don't usually meet people with these sorts of problems.

During this time I also learned a lot about what people litter on the highway.  A shocking amount of it is porn related.  These are just a few of the gems I picked up along the road:

But the most awkward encounter of the day was on the transportation van.  I was seated next to a young Mexican kid who seemed incredibly nervous.  He was staring into his lap with a vengeance.  I asked him if he was okay and he pointed out a man who was about to get on the van.

Nervous Kid: That's my Dad.  I haven't seen him in four years.

Okay, I'm sorry, but WHAT?  That is insane!  This kid and his delinquent dad both have community service on the same day in the same location??  And they were both assigned to same van?  I tried to think of something helpful to add to the situation.  This is what I came up with:

Me:  Oh... wow.

So then of course what happened next but the DAD SAT ON THE OTHER SIDE OF ME.  I was sitting between an estranged father and son AT COMMUNITY SERVICE.

Estranged dad: Miguel, I...

Nervous Kid: Don't.

It took about fifteen minutes for the van to reach our destination.  It was the longest fifteen minutes of my life.  As we picked up trash the estranged father kept trying to get close to his son and the son kept moving on ahead.  But finally, at lunch, the dad bought the son some tacos off the food truck we stopped at and they sat down on the curb to eat together.  As far as I could tell they didn't speak a word, but it seemed like a step in the right direction.  Community service: Bringing Families Together.

P.S.  So... so far the only pictures I've put up have been porn and sex related.  That seems about right.

Today's Moment of Awkward: Lube Overdose

The idea for today's moment of awkward came from my friend Kyla who writes for the blog Once A Month 4 Ladies.  Check it out at: http://onceamonth4ladies.com

I had a roommate in college who... how shall I say this... I was not overly fond of.  I was even more not overly fond of her boyfriend.  There was nothing wrong with him, per se, but he lived in New Jersey and would come into the city on the weekends and the two of them would literally never leave her bed.  They would lay in the dark, all day long, and watch TV.  And smell weird.  They always smelled weird.  I could actually tell when he was around by the smell.  Gross.

This roommate, let's call her Bertha, always had an abundance of lube.  There was a giant bottle on her bedside table, there was another smaller bottle on her desk, another on her dresser and one in the bathroom.  Several months went by before my curiosity got the better of me.  Finally I couldn't take it anymore.

Me: Weird question, but... why do you have so much lube?

Bertha:  I stocked up at Costco.  I just use so much of it.

I'm already sorry I asked, but then again, what did I expect.

Bertha:  Feel free to use some if you need any.

I threw up a little in my mouth at that, but tried not to let it show.

Me:  Oh, um, thanks, but I don't really use lube, so.... I'm good.

Bertha:  Oh, I guess you've never had sex with anyone with as large a penis as my boyfriend has.

Okay, now I should have just let the conversation end there.  I should have swallowed my pride, and my vomit, and gone back to studying or facebooking or I don't know, anything, because even if I was sticking pins under my nails it couldn't have been worse than this conversation.  But for some reason I couldn't.  I couldn't let her imply that her scrawny, stinky boyfriend was more well endowed than anyone I'd dated.

Me:  Umm, I mean my high school boyfriend was six foot six, so...

Bertha:  Well, men aren't always proportional.

Why?  Why is this happening?  Why can't I just stop myself???

Me: Oh he was proportional!  Maybe you just have an abnormally dry vagina.

Did I seriously just say that?  DID I SERIOUSLY JUST INSULTS SOMEONE'S VAGINA??


Yes.  Yes, I did.


Our relationship was never the same after that.  But she put most of the lube away.

Today's Moment of Awkward: Drunk Girl Sandwich

I was at a bar Saturday night and I got in line for the bathroom behind two drunk girls.  Standing in line you were pretty much forced to look at yourself in a giant mirror, and these drunk girls were not happy about it.

Drunk Girl #1: I don't get it.  I looked so good when I left the apartment, but now I look horrible.

Drunk Girl #2: Me too!  Is it the mirror?

Drunk Girl #1: No, I think I got fatter.

Drunk Girl #2: Me too!

They kind of turned towards me, looking for me to add something (What I'm not sure.  Was I supposed to agree that they looked fat, tell them they didn't look fat, or say that I look fat as well?  No idea).  I just shrugged.  The bathroom door opened and Drunk Girl #2 went inside, leaving Drunk Girl #1 with no one to talk to.  But me.

Drunk Girl #1: Okay, I have an idea.  I think I'll look prettier if I take off my lipstick.

She turns to me for an opinion.

Me: ... Okay.

She smears off her lipstick.

Drunk Girl #1: Is this better?

Me:  I... You... Yes?

That's when Drunk Girl #3 joined the line behind me.

Drunk Girl #3: You look great!  I like your ass!  Wait, I probably shouldn't stay that stuff.  But it's true.  Your ass looks amazing in that dress.

Drunk Girl #1: Really?  (On the verge of tears)  Really?!?  That's the nicest thing any one has said to me in a really long time.

Drunk Girl #3: Well it's true.  If I were gay I would totally want to grab your ass.

Drunk Girl #1: That's so sweet!

They are practically making out around me.  Drunk Girl #2 comes out of the bathroom, leaving the door open for Drunk Girl #1.  She ignores it.

Drunk Girl #1:  I feel like I was meant to meet you tonight.  I think this is fate.

WHAT?

Drunk Girl #3: We should totally become best friends.

Me: Umm, the bathroom is open...

Just then a male friend of Drunk Girl #1's comes up to check on her.

Drunk Girl #1: Ben, you have to meet this girl.  She's my new best friend.  She told me my ass looks good in this dress.

Now Drunk Girl #3 is sort of hitting on male friend Ben.

Me:  Bathroom...

Drunk Girl #3:  I am so happy I met you two.  I just sort of believe we're all going to be in each other's lives forever now.

Drunk Girl #1:  I know, I totally agree.

Me: Bathroom's open.  You're up.

Drunk Girl #3: We need to hang out more.

More than just this once, in line for the bathroom?  I subtly inch towards the bathroom, and slide inside.  They don't seem to notice.  I can hear them outside making plans for their life together.  This is my life, I am the awkward filling in a drunk girl sandwich.

Today's Moment of Awkward: Why I'll Never Grow Old

For two years I lived in an elevatorless building on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.  My roommate and I lived on the second floor, but there was an old woman who lived two floors above us.  This woman had three dogs (shit, this sounds like it could be future me) and the saddest life ever.  She was also rather obese, and always seemed to be carrying bags full of canned goods up and down the stairs for no apparent reason.

One New Year's Day my roommate and I were returning from our tradition hung-over bagel run and ran into our elderly neighbor laboriously climbing down the stairs.  She asked about our New Year's Eve and we gave the standard response you give old people about your New Year's Eve plans: "It was fun, just a small group of friends".

Then we asked her about her New Year's Eve and I haven't stopped crying since.

Elderly Neighbor: I wanted to watch the ball drop on TV but there was a problem with my cable.  I was actually on the phone with a man from Time Warner at midnight.

Us:  Oh no!  Aww.  How awful.  Etc. 

Elderly Neighbor:  No, it wasn't that bad.  At least I had someone to talk to on New Year's Eve this year...

Us: Awkward Silence.  Awkward Silence.  AWKWARD SILENCE.  HORRIFIED SOBBING.

To Hug or Not To Hug, That is the Question

It is a question I always manage to answer incorrectly.  This is one of the most awkward parts of day to day social interactions, and one I am particularly bad at.  When meeting/seeing someone is it better to hug, shake hands or just sort of nod and smile?  Obviously it differs from situation to situation but how do you know when to do which?  A little while ago I saw an old friend of my boyfriend who I have only met once before.  My boyfriend hugged him so I decided to follow suit.  As I was hugging him he mumbled "Oh, wow, a full on hug?  Okay..." Apparently I made the wrong choice in that situation.  A few days later I saw another of my boyfriend's friends, this time one I know pretty well.  I decided to go with hand shake, not wanting to repeat the same mistake twice.  He laughed and pointed.  (Okay, he didn't point but he did laugh)  Ahhhhh!  What is a girl supposed to do?

Fortunately there are some questions you can ask yourself:

- Have you ever spent time one-on-one with this person and not hated every minute of it?  HUG.

- Is this the first time meeting this person, and you haven't previously heard a ton about them and feel like you already know them on some level even though technically you do not?  NO HUG.

- Have you held their hair back while they puked?  HUG.

- Have you ever punched them in the stomach and/or face? NO HUG.

- Is it a quasi-celebrity?  NO HUG.

- Are you drunk?  HUG.  (Not that you necessarily should hug the person, but you will anyway, so I'm going to give it a pass)

- Are you high and kind of paranoid and worried that this person might be trying to steal your memories and/or soul?  HUG.  (Keep your friends close, but your memory/soul stealing cyborg enemies closer)

If you can't answer any of these with a yes, then I'm sorry my friends you're on your own.  Your best bet is to imagine what I would do, and then do the opposite.

Today's Moment of Awkward: Texting Troubles

Okay, this is a big one.  I think this might be in my top ten awkward moments of my life.  I have an ex-boyfriend, let's call him Argos*.  Argos was the type of boyfriend that all your friends hated (mostly because he's a total D-bag) but you were totally infatuated with (probably because he's a total D-bag).  So of course, three days before Valentine's Day, he unceremoniously dumped me.

It took me about six months to get over him, and that's when he started calling me again.  He was all "hey, how's it going, we should hang out or something" and I was all "hehehehehehehe, I don't know, I'm pretty busy, heheheheh, I WANT TO SEE YOU ALWAYS."  He invited me to go see a movie with him, which seemed pretty safe.  I mean if it's awkward you just don't talk, and then two hours later it's over.  Also, my roommate was out of town, so there was no one to explain to me that this was a very bad, ridiculous, stupid, horrible idea.  Except through text, which she did.  Although kind of subtly.  It was like:  "This doesn't seem to be a good idea, but if you think it is, go for it."  But in my head all I read was: "go for it".

As I walked to the subway, I was still texting back and forth with my roommate.  I was also texting back and forth with Argos.  (You may be able to guess where this is going.)   Suddenly I get a text from him that says: "I'm at a friend's party and I'm already kind of drunk.  Why don't you just come meet me here?"  In other words: RED ALERT.  RED ALERT.  RED ALERT.  But I was already halfway to the subway... so....

I furiously wrote a text to my roommate: "Now he wants me to come to a party.  This seems like a really bad idea, I'll probably end up hooking up with him and falling in love with him again.  But I mean... I'm pretty much at the subway... so..."

She didn't respond to that one and, since no one told me not to, I got onto the subway.  Then, just as the doors were closing I got a response.  From Argos.  It read: "You sent that to me."  Then the doors closed.  If you've ever lived in New York you know that once the door shut there is no way you're getting reception until you're above ground again.

Needless to say, we did hook up.  Also needless to say, it turned out to be a very bad, ridiculous, stupid, horrible idea.

*  Despite the fake name I decided on, he was not a wizard, or a Greek city.  As far as I know.

Awkward Pick-Up Line: "I Have Chlamydia"

You would think that being diagnosed with Chlamydia would hinder your dating life.  Not so for my friend Kumquat*.   Kumquat was one of my best friends in high school, but after graduation she got a little... what's the word... slutty.  She also developed a penchant for commitment phobic guys.  (No judgement here, I think we've all been guilty of that at some point in our lives.  Okay, well maybe not all of us, but probably me.)  She had a huge thing for a guy named Santiago**.  Of course she was more into Santiago than he was into her so after a lot of uncomfortable, obviously set-up "bumping-intos" (that I was usually involved in against my will) it ended.  That is until she got chlamydia.  Because when you get chlamydia the doctor tells you that you have to inform anyone you've had sex with in the past year, which apparently in  Kumquat's mind was as good an ice breaker as any to start things up again with Santiago.  Thus I was forced to listen to the most awkward phone conversation of my life.

Kumquat:  "Hey, Santiago, it's  Kumquat.  (That part didn't sound so absurd when it was their real names)  So... how have you been?  Yadayadayada.  Well, actually, I'm calling for a reason.  You see, my doctor told me I have chlamydia and that you should probably get tested.  But I also thought maybe we could get together and have coffee.  Catch up on old times.  Plus, I mean if we both already have chlamydia..."

Needless to say they are now married.  Haha, just kidding.  They're both dead.

*Seriously, I'm really bad at coming up with fake names.

** Boom.  Nailed it.  Awesome fake name.  I'm getting better at this.

The Holy Grail of Awkward: Parent Sex

There is literally nothing more awkward in the entire world than talking to your parents about sex.  Or even being around them when someone else is talking about sex.  Or even just thinking about the word sex when they're in the same room.  I don't even like to watch a movie with my parents where they imply two characters might have sex.  It is the holy grail of awkward.  Which brings me to my Dad's 50th birthday party.

I was 13 at the time and I had no interest in going to my Dad's all adult birthday party, but my parents insisted.  I was right all along, I had absolutely no business being there, because the theme, it turned out, was sex.  It was set up sort of as a roast, with friends of his telling stories about my Dad.  Mostly about my Dad and sex.  My dad had a friend who was a Mark Twain impersonator (I didn't realize how weird that was at the time) and his speech was especially dirty.  It seems Mark Twain was kind of a perv.  Then they all showered him with sex toys.  I kid you not.

The crowning glory was the entrance of The Tootsie Twins.  There was a joke in my house when I was a kid that anytime my mom answered the phone and the person on the other line hung up it was one of The Tootsie Twins.  Looking back I realize the implication is that my dad was having an affair with a set of twins who would call the house and then hang up if my mother answered  (I didn't realize how weird that was at the time either).  No wonder I'm so awkward.  As I cowered in my seat, disgusted and disturbed, two escorts strolled into the room and took turns sitting on my father's lap.  I don't know much about escorts, but if 80s movies have taught me anything it's that there are fancy, high-class escorts and then there are not fancy escorts.  These were the not fancy kind.  They were most likely born in a communist country and had only recently come to the land of dreams/dentistry.  Watching Tootsies #1 and #2 take turns giving my dad lap dances I realized I would never again see life the same way.

Somebody Else's Awkward: "I Ran Over a Human Person Outside of That Club."

I used to work at a company where the only times the executives and the assistants socialized was on birthdays.  It was sort of a tradition that if it was an assistant's birthday their boss would have a few drinks and slices of cake with the bottom dwellers (I of course was the very bottom of the dwellers).  And for some reason the boss would then inevitably, very awkwardly, reveal some personal story about themselves.  One moment stands out:

An executive named Rutabaga* (I'm really bad at coming up with fake names) was having a drink with us on her assistant's b-day when she revealed something very shocking.  Someone mentioned a club they'd recently been to and her immediate response was: "I ran over a human person outside of that club."  Shocked silence.  First off, what is a human person??  Second off... what is a human person??  Is there a person that is not human?  Or a human that is not a person?  What are the other options other than a human person?!?

She went on to explain that she'd had two margarita's and while she claimed she was totally fine to drive she was worried that a breathalyzer might disagree.  Did I mention she's not a US citizen?  She'd been in LA for 10+ years on a work permit, and I'm not totally sure how those things work, but apparently they can kick you out at any time because she said her first thought was... Deportation.  Let's examine that for a second.  Her immediate thought was not "IS THAT HUMAN PERSON OKAY???"  It was "Shit, I hope I don't get deported."  She followed this up with: "After fifteen minutes someone finally came to see if I was okay."  If I stop to analyze that sentence we could be here all day.  But I couldn't help but interject at this point: "What happened to the person you ran over?  The... human person?"  Rutabaga: "Oh, he was just lying in the street."  Okay, glad we cleared that up.  No need to worry about the POSSIBLY DEAD MAN IN THE STREET.  I mean not when your residency is at risk!!  No one was really sure what to say next, but Rutabaga assured us that he eventually stood up and, while he seemed a little woozy, he was definitely alive.  Some witnesses tried to call the cops, but the human person stopped them.  Rutabega:  "I was sooo lucky.  It turns out he was an illegal!"  Then she finished her drink, stood up and said:  "Well, nice talking to you guys.  Happy birthday.  I have dinner plans."

*I've always wanted to use one of these asterisks at the bottom of a page.

Awkward Halloween: Skin-Heads Attack

Unsurprisingly, I was a weird kid.  I loved writing stories, which seems pretty normal, but all of my stories would end with the characters dying in some totally gruesome way.  I once wrote a chapter book where each chapter ended with a death and an illustration of the death, to make it even more disturbing.  One chapter concluded with a man being eaten alive by fire ants, another with an entire family burning alive in their home.  Four to nine was my dark period.

One Halloween, right after my family had moved from downtown Chicago to the suburbs, my mother asked me what I'd like to dress up as.  I didn't really fit in in the suburbs and I think I'm starting to see why:  I told my mother I'd like my costume to be a "victim of a skin-head attack".  I don't remember how my mother responded, but amazingly she must have said yes because on Halloween I went to school dressed in a hospital robe with crutches and a bandaged head.  The teacher was undoubtedly upset by this; my classmates had no idea what a skin-head was and were therefore totally confused.  But I was happy.

After school I was walking home when some random woman, I'm assuming someone's mom, ran up to me and grabbed my backpack of my shoulder.

Random Mom:   Oh my God!  Let me help you!  Are you walking home?  Please, let me give you a ride.

I probably should have realized what was going on, but honestly I did not put two and two together.  (I also probably should have remembered that you don't get into cars with strangers...)  As I followed her to her car she tried to find a way to subtly ask me what had happened to me, but since I had no idea what she was talking about she wasn't having much luck.  I think she most likely assumed I was being abused at home.  Finally, as I was getting into her mini-van she blurted it out.

Random Mom:  What happened to your head?

Now let's pause for a moment.  I may have been being a little obtuse, but this woman was obviously a moron.  First off, it was HALLOWEEN.  Second off, even if my injuries were real, they would never send me to school IN A HOSPITAL GOWN.  Third off, well, maybe there isn't a third off, but I think just those two classify her as legally retarded.

Me:  It's part of my Halloween costume.  I'm dressed as a "victim of a skin-head attack."

Her mouth fell open so wide I could see her esophagus (whatever that is) and she threw my backpack on the ground.  Then she called me a name no mother should ever call a child (now that I think about it I have no proof she was a mother), forced me out of her mini-van and drove away.

That's why you never let an awkward child pick their own Halloween costume.

Someone Else's Awkward: Ice Bullets

My first "real" job was during the summer between Junior and Senior year of high school.  My mom got me a job at a marketing firm, counting the "Who Wants to be a Millionaire" McDonald's scratch-and-win game pieces.  Literally counting them, to make sure the number of cards matched up with the amount of reimbursement each McDonald's franchise was requesting.  By the end of the day my hands were bright silver.  I looked like I had slow-spreading Tin Man disease.

Despite the lack of brain function needed to complete this job I was far and away the youngest employee.  There were a bunch of college guys (all of whom I had crushes on, of course), one weird woman with visible breast tattoos, a wise middle-aged black woman (some stereotypes are true) and a crazy man with one eye (maybe most stereotypes are true).  While we counted scratch-and-win tickets we had little to do but talk.

Which is how I got to know A LOT about crazy-one-eyed-Jack.  I don't actually remember his name, but Jack sounds fitting, doesn't it?  Crazy-one-eyed-Jack claimed he lost his eye in a game of lawn darts with his brother when he was five.  This could be true, but probably was not.  Crazy-one-eyed-Jack claimed he used to be a male stripper.  He claimed it all started when he was working as a pizza delivery guy and tried to deliver a pizza to a bachelorette party.   He claimed they begged him to strip for them because their stripper had cancelled.  This is almost certainly not true.

But my favorite fact I learned about crazy-one-eyed-Jack was his "murder plan".  One day he came to work, made himself an Easy Mac breakfast (all he ate was Kraft Easy Mac) and announced he had come up with the perfect "murder plan".  All he needed was one thing.  An ice bullet gun.  This gun would shoot bullets made of ice, so by the time the police arrived the bullets would have melted and there would be no evidence.  No one knew what to say to this, so finally I asked "Won't the police just look for the guy with the one-of-a-kind ice bullet gun?"  A very awkward silence followed this question, but for once it wasn't because of what I'd said.

To this day, if I hear a noise in the dark of night I fear it may be crazy-one-eyed-Jack and his finally perfected ice bullet gun.

Today's Moment of Awkward: Michael Pitt Is Not My Boyfriend

In 2007 I had a dream that I was dating the actor Michael Pitt.  I can actually date this dream because the movie "Funny Games" was about to come out.  In the dream Michael Pitt and I had started dating a few months before the movie's release and then when it was coming out he begged me not to go see it.  He said that in the movie he plays a sociopath and he didn't want me to see him like that, even in a movie, because it might change the way I look at him.  I tried to convince him that I knew it was just a movie and he was playing a part but he insisted.  (We were so in love back then.  Sigh.)

I never did see that movie.  And, of course, I forgot about the dream.

Then the other day I'm in Beverly Hills, and there is Michael Pitt, standing outside a sandwich shop all alone, smoking a cigarette.  And my first thought is "Shit!  My ex.  Awkward."  In the split seconds before I realize that this thought is utterly insane I avert my eyes and block my face from his view with my hand.  Now Michael Pitt is staring at me, totally confused.  Usually the celebrities are the ones blocking their faces, not random girls on the street.   I have to remind myself "Michael Pitt is not your ex-boyfriend.  You had a dream that you dated him FIVE YEARS AGO.  That is not real life.  He's just an actor who now thinks you're a total freak."  And it's true.  He did.

Netflix is Judging Me

There are a lot of websites out there now that like to give you “Recommendations”.  They take information they have about what you’ve liked in the past and try to guess what else would strike your fancy.  Goodreads, a site that tracks what books you’re reading, thinks I would enjoy The Lorax, every dystopian Young Adult novel ever written, and the collected works of David Foster Wallace.  I’m not sure what that says about me, but it seems bad.  


But it’s nothing compared to Netflix.  

For some reason Netflix is under the opinion that I am a 40-year-old single mom/serial killer.  How can one person be recommended both a movie about a girl who’s vagina has teeth and a sit-com about how a fat person and a thin person really can love one another, despite their kooky family?  Who is this person that Netflix thinks I am?  And why is Netflix’s judgement of me leading me to judge myself?

Let’s look through the last few things I watched on Netflix Instant.  One episode of Downton Abbey, three episodes of How I Met Your Mother, two episodes of Breaking Bad and the 2001 movie Bully about a bunch of teenagers that murder a bully, which, might I add, does not stand the test of time.  Okay, maybe I’m starting to see the big picture.  Maybe Netflix isn’t wrong about me, maybe I’m wrong about Netflix.  Or rather, I’m wrong about me.  Wait, what?  I’m confused.

It seems I may actually be a 40-year-old single mom/serial killer. I had no idea.

Warning from The Crazy Dog Lady

I was always warned about the “crazy cat ladies”.  These women were old, single, pathetic and always owned a minimum of 20 cats.  In the past they were called old maids, and exiled to a decrepit home in the East Hamptons where they donned weird hats and sang to themselves.  Now they are put on TV on what should be a TLC show, but is actually on Animal Planet, Confessions: Animal Hoarders.  (Why not just call it Animal Hoarders? Is there a series of Confessions shows on Animal Planet?  What other confessions related to animals could there be?  Confessions:  I’m into besitality.  Confessions: I think I’m a dog.  Okay, so I guess there could be other animal related confession shows.  But I digress.)  

What no one warned me about was the possibility of being a crazy dog lady.  So of course, that’s what I am.  I have three dogs in an 1100 sq ft, 1 bedroom apartment.  Granted, unlike most cat ladies, I do have a boyfriend, but at times I consider him to be more like a fourth dog.  He scarfs down a bowl of food and then curls up on the couch to take a nap.

When someone I’m talking to mentions their dog (their 1 dog, mind you) I invariably mention one of my dogs (as I am want to bring the conversation around to being about me no matter what the topic).  They then say “oh, you have a dog?  what kind?”  When I respond that I have not 1 dog, but 3, a look of concern, disgust and sometimes even panic appears on their face.  I am something not many people come in contact with.  The crazy dog lady.  

Once they have learned this fact about me it becomes the only fact worth knowing.  From that moment on all we will ever talk about is cute things dogs do.  And for the most part I’m fine with that, as I hate most everyone I meet and want nothing more than to never speak to them again.  But then I feel pressure to out-cute them and let’s be honest, there are really only ten cute things a dog can do.  They can’t talk, which means they can’t say something funny, so every discussion is just a variation on one of those ten cute dog things.  

And that’s people with dogs.  People without dogs find my stories unbearably annoying.  I can tell.  You’re getting annoyed right now, just imagining me telling these stories about my dogs.  You’re thinking “shut the fuck up about your fucking dogs” and you’re right.  Because while no one has ever said that to me, I can tell they’ve been thinking it.  I can see it in their eyes.  THEIR EYES.  

But things just get worse.  The other day I made up a rap about being a dog that I then pretended my dog was singing and dancing to.  It went a little something like this “I’m a dog, I’ve got paws and I do the humpty dumpty.  Get up off of my rug.  Get up off of my rug.  Get up off of my rug or I’ll show you what I’m made of.”  I later cut it down to just one “Get up off of my rug” for the radio version.  The saddest part is, I don’t even know what the humpty dumpty is.

I’m basically unable to travel since I can’t afford to board all three dogs.  I can’t be spontaneous and go out at night and think so what if I end up passed out drunk on a friend’s couch.  I can’t even go out to brunch without feeling guilty that the dogs can’t go out to brunch to.  (Little known fact: Dogs love eggs benedict.  Also their own vomit and shoes.)  It is pretty much inevitable that I will become that woman on Confessions: Animal Hoarders that lives in a trailer with 20 pets while her husband lives in a separate trailer because he can’t stand the smell of shit anymore.  It’s too late to change things now, but let this serve as a warning for all young women out there.  There is such a thing as a crazy dog lady.  I am her.

Words I Can't Stand / Today's Moment of Awkward: Lovers at the Pet Store

I’m not talking about the C-word here, or the F-word or B-word or whatever other letter-dash-words there are.  I’m talking about the word Lover.  Say it slowly.  Lover.  You know what’s even worse?  Made Love.  Last night I Made Love to my Lover.  I just threw up.  Sensuous.  Moist.  Sepulveda. (Don’t ask, that one came from a co-worker)  Last night My Lover Made Love to my Sensuous Moist Sepulveda.  (I’m starting to understand Sepulveda).  

This brings me to an awkward encounter I had at a pet store.  My boyfriend and I were buying a few things for the dogs and the cashier asked if I had the store’s discount card.  I don’t, but my parents do so I gave her their phone number.

Cashier: So you must be Linda (my mom)?

Now I probably could have explained that Linda and David are my parents, but being the awkward person I am I decided it made more sense to lie.

Me: Yes.  Linda.  It is true.  That is my name.  I am Linda.

Cashier: (to my boyfriend)  And you must be her husband, David?

Boyfriend: No.  I’m her lover.

I think I laughed maniacally at this point and then broke down in gibberish noises, although I’m not sure because everything went black for a while.  Needless to say the cashier was very confused.  I tried to make it better by saying:

Me: David is my father.

That did not make it better.  Somehow that brought up images of incest and other gross things.  I left the store in shame.  My boyfriend was laughing.

Today's Moment of Awkward: Accidental Slurs

I was trying to make conversation with a somewhat awkward woman who was visiting my workplace and, of course, when someone else is awkward I become exponentially more awkward.  It's like when an awkward oxygen atom meets an awkward hydrogen atom and causes an awkward nuclear explosion.  (I don't know how science works.)

She mentioned that she and her partner had two kids, and then went on to refer to her partner as "she".  That's cool, I'm a big fan of the gays.  We went on to talk about their children, where they live, what her partner does for a living, etc.

I work on a TV show, so there was plenty to distract us from our somewhat stilted small talk.  One of the characters came out in a crazy costume that made him look like a homeless man from the 1940s.  My new lesbian friend made a reference to it and I agreed:

Me: "Yeah, he looks like a homo.  Hobo.  Hobo!"

Long silence.

Me: "Ho. Bo."

Longer silence.

Her: "Yeah..."

And that was today's moment of awkward.

My Rules for Being a Tomgirl

A few weeks ago a friend at work told me that she had a list of rules for being a proper girl (I may be paraphrasing, but proper sounds British-ey, so I'm going with it).  She implied that she had compiled thousands of rules but these are the three she shared with me:

1.  Never go out with chipped nails.
2.  Never have more than two drinks on a first date.
3.  Never pay on a first date.  Don't even reach for your wallet.  Don't even admit that you have money, or know what it is.  When he takes out his wallet ask what that funny green stuff it.  (Again, I may be paraphrasing)

Looking at that list I realized that I have broken every single one of those rules at one time or another.  In the course of a week my nails are chipped an average of six days.  Sometimes more.  And yet I continue to wear nail polish.  The other day my boyfriend told me I don't own enough shoes.  When a straight male tells you that you don't own enough shoes I'm pretty sure that's grounds for them to take away your vagina.  But at the same time I'm one of the few girls in my office who wears dresses to work, on occasion.  I enjoy watching sports on TV, but anytime I've tried to play them in real life I've inevitably gotten hit in the head with a softball.  Even when I wasn't playing softball.  It takes me 30-45 minutes to get ready in the morning and do my hair and make-up, but then throughout the course of the day I never once brush my hair or reapply my make-up.  I consider myself medium maintenance.

I am obviously not a "proper girl", but I'm also not a tomboy.  I am... a tomgirl!  (Trademark pending me applying for a trademark.)  While I consider myself the perfect example of this phenomenon, I know that there are others out there like me.  Now with this rallying call we shall band together and continue to paint our nails sporadically.

Yesterday I turned 28

Yesterday I turned 28.

28 is almost 30.  28 is when your metabolism slows down and you're forced to live the rest of your life on carrot sticks and cottage cheese.  28 is when you're no longer allowed to shop at Urban Outfitters and instead have to shop at Anthropology even though you can't afford it.  28 is when you celebrate your birthday at a winery instead of a dive bar.  28 is when you start a blog.  Okay, that one only pertains to me.

A few things you should know about me (other than that I am 28):

1.  I can make any encounter awkward.  I used to be ashamed of this, but now I've come to accept and even enjoy it.  Meeting new people: Awkward.  Talking to my boss: Awkward.  Elevator rides: Awkward.  The dressing room at the gym: Awkward.  You get the picture.

2.  I cannot make a decision to save my life.  I can't decide what to eat, where to eat, what to wear to work, what to watch on TV, etc.  One time I went to a buffet and my brain exploded.  

3.  I have three dogs in a small one bedroom apartment.  That might not sound like that important of a thing to know, but it is.  I'm seriously one dog away from being a pet hoarder.  It's a sickness.

I'm sure there are other things about me, but I don't want to blow my wad on the first go round.  Here's the thing: this year I made a birthday resolution, and that resolution is... to conquer the internet.  Yeah that's right, I'm going to make the worldwide web my bitch.  I will be doing things like writing this blog, starting a twitter account, and... writing this blog.  So lookout world, you're about to be dominated by an awkward, indecisive dog hoarder.  And you're going to like it.