Tag Archives: awkward

Some Vacation Ramblings

17 Apr

So, I’m on vacation. It’s kind of weird, since I’ve been unemployed going on three weeks now, and usually a vacation is enjoying time away from work. Which I’ve been doing. Since I don’t have a job.

I’m down here in super sunny Orlando, FL with my three stepsisters, my stepdad, and my mom. (Adam‘s coming on Thursday! I can’t wait till he gets here!) Ever since we blended our families together, we’ve been doing the whole Family Vacation Thing, which I’ve gotta say, is way more awesome when there are suddenly five kids hanging around. I can’t imagine anyone ever complaining about having too many siblings.

We got down here two days ago and I wasn’t sure if I was going to post anything, but I did bring my computer and we do have free internet, so here are some thoughts I’ve been having. They are disjointed and disorganized, but at the end there are some pictures!

… Even though I’ve been slathering on the SPF, the Florida sun is strong and I’m well on my way to displaying my mysterious ethnicity. For the record, I’m not actually any kind of exotic ethnicity, but I frequently get asked “what” I am. As my skin tans, my hair lightens, and I have almost-black eyes that confuse the general population into regularly thinking I am some kind of Pacific Islander.

… We’re staying at this resort  and it employs this DJ who, on a daily basis, rocks out to random unrelated hits like these, with some Celine Dion and self-accompanied country karaoke thrown into the mix. He’s hilarious and his presence is just so awkward.

… He also runs what I’ve dubbed Afternoon Contest Time, during which I’ve seen little kids learn and perform the Macarena, Cupid Shuffle, and Cha Cha Slide, cheat shamelessly in a limbo contest, and hula hoop with three hula hoops at once. The kids at this resort are talented, obviously.

… I’m going to DisneyWorld tomorrow for the first time ever in my entire life and I can already tell I’m going to regress into a 10-year-old. I’m giddily thrilled to pieces to ride the teacups, see Cinderella’s castle, and hopefully hug Mickey.

… My stepdad is proving to be absolutely hilarious. I’m sitting here with him and my mom watching Glee (the stupid disco episode – my god, I hate this show) and this conversation between them just happened:

Mom: Did you do those dances back then? I did. I loved them. I knew all the moves.

Stepdad: Up North we only drank beers and killed bears. We didn’t dance.

For the record, my stepdad is from Michigan.

Here are some delightful photos as a reward for making it through my ramblings. Or maybe just scrolling down, but don’t actually tell me if that’s what you did.

Clockwise from top right: Tropical Popsicle/Worst Book Ever/Sandals, Mysteriously Ethnic (and/or sunburned) Self Photo, Strawberry Marg/Original Goldfish, Orlando Sunset


The Crazy Chick You Think Only Exists in Movies

21 Mar

While I love writing about boys and all the adventures they bring to my life, I haven’t written about any frisky bedroom escapades in quite a while. About two years, to be exact. And those are all password protected now. (HI COWORKERS! HI MOM!)

But there’s this one story I keep forgetting to tell. In fact, I keep forgetting it happened at all until I remember and crack up and think to myself, “I have GOT to write that down!” The premise of the story is the hookup, but as you’ll see, sexy-times are so not the point here.

It was fall of 2010, the peak of my drunken-low-standards phase. Making good life decisions was just not something I was interested in doing for a while.

I met this guy through a friend, as it happens when you’re not making good life decisions, ended up back at his apartment that night. Some more-than-G-rated things are happening and it’s all good fun, but his phone just kept buzzing. And buzzing. And buzzing.

“Um, do you need to get that?” I asked.

“Nah, it’s just my psycho ex girlfriend.”

As he turned off his phone, a horrifying thought occurred to me. “Does she know she’s your ex?” I asked, ready to cut and run. (I wasn’t making such bad life decisions that I was ok with hooking up with guys already in relationships.)

He laughed it off and said of course she does, that they broke up six months ago, and that she’s just seriously crazy and still totally in love with him.

At this point, the mood for doing fun things in varying levels of clothing was kind of awkwardly just not there anymore, so we lay back to go to sleep … when his buzzer rings. The buzzer you buzz to be let into the apartment.

We both bolt upright and I demand an explanation.

“I thought she might do that,” he sighs. The fact that he wasn’t in total shock that this girl would appear at his doorstep in the middle of the night is mind boggling to me. (Did I mention it was a Sunday?)

His apartment buzzer buzzes for about ten minutes – TEN! MINUTES! – until he finally DISCONNECTS IT FROM THE WALL.

But this nutjob of a psychotic girl is not to be deterred. She begins buzzing his neighbor. We can hear it through the walls and it’s awkward because it’s legitimately 3am at this point.

Finally, the buzzing stops. We breath sighs of relief and close our eyes. Except then there’s a pounding on the door.

(Seriously, I swear this is all true. I think this is why I forget it happened, though, because it all seems so freaking unreal.)

Anyway, so there I am, in this guy’s bed, with his (supposed) ex-girlfriend literally pounding on his door, crying his name (like sobbing-crying, but also yelling-crying), and generally disturbing every ounce of my being.

Just as this gent turned his phone on to call the cops (as well as see a total of 47 text messages from this chick), she gave up and went home. Or passed out in the hallway, but at least she was gone in the morning.

This is why guys think girls are crazy.

Because some of them are.

Flirting Fail

14 Mar

Last week, I introduced you to the concept of the Two Prong Dating Approach, in which – as you know – I am one of the two prongs involved. Aside from the two adventures C and I are planning, I’m also trying to be more outgoing and flirtatious with gents I actually find attractive. (I’m very good at being flirtatious with gents I do not find attractive, which really never works out in my favor. Or theirs.)

Anyway, one evening I find myself at some bar for happy hour with friends. I lean against the bar to order a drink and – lo and behold – the bartender is gorgeous. Tall, dark hair, light eyes … and an accent! I was obviously immediately in love and, since I’d had three Bud Lights, was tipsy enough to have the confidence to flirt completely shamelessly.

I decide the perfect approach will be to highlight my sporty-girl prowess to this Euro-Hottie. And the subsequent (fairly one-sided) flirtation goes like this:

“So, where are you from?” I could already tell he was Irish, but I wanted to play it cool.

Irishness confirmed, I continue, “Are you a football fan?”

Predictably, he asks me to clarify whether I mean “my” football or “his.” Feeling extra cool at this point, I smile and say I mean his. Sadly, he says he isn’t really a fan.

I play out my disappointment with what I’m sure is a charming grin and say, “That’s too bad! We’re going to watch the football game on Saturday!”

Confused, he asks me to clarify what the hell I’m talking about.

“You know, the game! It’s Ireland and Scotland! You should come and help us cheer for Ireland.” At this point, I’m just thrilled with my superior European sports knowledge and pretty much on top of the world.

Until he looks at me with a look that perfectly combines pity, amusement, and something else that suggests I’m about to be very embarrassed.

“Um,” he says, “That’s a rugby game.”

That Time I Skyped With Amazonian Tea Farmers

7 Mar

So, C and I decided back in January that we were going to go on two “out of the box” adventures every month. The point is to meet new people – who are hopefully attractive gents who’d like to date us. We’re calling the plan “The Two Prong Dating Approach, In Which We Are The Prongs.”

For February, one of the adventures was originally a (free) tour of the Chelsea Brewery. Always the creative thinker, C had other ideas for us. “Why don’t we go to this Spanish Speakers Meetup in Brooklyn?” she suggested innocently.

I kindly reminded her that I speak approximately 12 words of Spanish, ten of which are numbers.

“Don’t you think that might be a little awkward for me?” I replied, wishing we could stick to beer, which would at least be in a language I could comprehend.

She’s persuasive, though, and sent me details – something about tea farmers and the Amazon and Skype. At the very least, this would be hilarious. At the most, it would actually be fun. I soon acquiesced, having pretty much no idea what I was getting myself into.

The Saturday in question rolled around and we trekked our way out to Brooklyn. Really, it wasn’t so much of a trek as a 15 minute subway ride, but still. Brooklyn feels far away. It felt even more foreign when we showed up at the address listed on the event website …

If this isn't exactly what you imagine when you imagine a Typical Abandoned Brooklyn Warehouse, then you need to amend your imagination.

Seriously, this place appeared to be some kind of abandoned warehouse. “Whatever happens, this was YOUR choice,” I reminded C, laughing but also confused, curious, entertained, and slightly freaked out.

We walked through the front door and through an unheated, eery-as-hell hallway. I’m talking – there were mannequin torsos and detached limbs strewn about, scraps of fabric and old rugs, dilapidated chairs and tables. Going up the creepy elevator, I was fairly certain we were in some kind of horror movie.

But then it all transformed! We walked into a cozy (still warehouse-y, still very Brooklyn) open space that clearly served as several offices/headquarters. But it was heated! And not creepy!

And…everything was in Spanish. I smiled and nodded and laughed along with the crowd until someone started asking me questions and all I could do was stand there. Mute. Because, you know, when you go to a Spanish Speakers Meetup, everyone assumes you speak Spanish.


Anyway, C did her best to translate and I was actually quite entertaining to most people as I stood, grinning and mute, in the middle of the room. We got to Skype with legit tea farmers in Ecuador, which was hilarious to me only because I could understand none of what they were saying.

We drank the tea and even got to take a box home for ourselves. I flirted shamelessly with the company’s founder (in English) before I found out he was living with his girlfriend. C chattered coherently to everyone but me in her fluent Spanish.

And so we launched our Two Prong Approach – in which we are the prongs – in an old warehouse in Brooklyn drinking tea virtually hanging out with Amazonian tea farmers.

I’m calling it a success, since I couldn’t understand a word anyone said. I assume they all loved me.

The Giant Pants & An Obscure Cartoon

6 Feb

I used to have these super soft, gray cotton, drawstring pajama pants. I got them when I was in that adolescent stage of thinking I was way more enormous than I really was, so naturally these pants were also enormous. I, however, have never actually been enormous, so the pants just looked ridiculous on me.

Luckily, they were pajamas, so I didn’t wear them in public. Ok, maybe sometimes I did, but it was high school and back in 2002 wearing giant pajama pants in public was cool. FINE I just had a terrible fashion sense.

That’s not the point.

The point is that I brought them to college with me and then brought them to France during my semester abroad. At some point in France, I realized just how giant these pants were:

It's unclear why I was ever under the impression these pants fit normally.

I mean, really, you’d think I’d lost some impressive amount of weight and wanted to illustrate it. Nah, I just had an incredibly skewed concept of how small or big I really was.

Shortly after my Giant Pants Epiphany, I started experimenting with how much of my body I could fit into these pants. Turns out, it was all of it:

This is what we did for fun in France.

Around the same time I was playing the Fit My Entire Body In a Pair of Pants Game, Facebook introduced photo albums and something called “tagging.” As you can imagine, these pictures got posted – and tagged – immediately. (They’re still tagged. Why would I ever take them down?)

This one was particularly popular with two of my roommates:

If you don't see a giant gray ass with a head, you need your eyes checked.

My roommates began referring to me as Assy McGee. Apparently I needed a crash course in clothing sizes and  pop culture: Assy wasn’t just an endearing nickname, but an actual cartoon character.

I'm not sure there's an appropriate caption for this.

It’s been six years and I wear smaller pants now, but I’ve never actually lived this down.

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