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.