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.