Is it Awkward?

Upon returning from your trip to the warehouse discount store, you fumble to carry in a 50+ package of extra cushion toilet paper.  Over the top of the package you eye the cutie from your building that you’ve been dying to talk too.  They smile and say, “I see you like to pamper your butt as well.” 

Aren’t my mooooves DANGEROUS!?!

The setting is a nightclub, a trendy spot where everyone gets their dance on. Every club-goer is in a separate world on a floor filled with dance steps, moves and fist pumping.  It usually looks like this: I LIKE TO DANCE.

The time is around midnight when the club is reaching the peak of the night.   Kate, Tyler and I waited in line for 15 minutes with a cluster of night-club aficionados.  Not too bad.  We just wanted to get out for a night of fun after a long, long day of school and studying.  We deserved a night off to just drink, dance and be merry. We were enticed by an article in TIME-OUT MAGAZINE featuring a club named “SOUND,” a MUST for all clubbing fanatics.

We walked into the dark place, decorated with orange couches to the left in front of an orange, white and black tiled bar. The dance floor was huge, and dancers even graced the mini-stage front and center.  It felt like a modernized version of a club from Austin Powers.

“LET’S CHECK OUT THE FLOOR AND DANCE FOR A BIT,” Tyler tried to scream to Kate and me over the loud, heart shattering beats of the synthesized bass.

We swayed side to side, twirled around, and fought our way to the middle.  The middle area was crowded, people were sweaty, and the only dancing you could do was bouncing up and down.  It was completely uncomfortable for anyone with personal space issues, and the alarming smell of body odor turned Kate, Tyler and me around towards the trendy-lit bar across the room and away from the smelly group of people.

“I’ll take a Gin and Tonic,” Kate smiled as she placed her order.

“Make that two!” Tyler added while the bartender was making drinks.

“Hmmmmm…” I thought to myself, “I’m not in a Gin mood. Maybe I’ll try something different.”

Kate and Tyler grabbed their drinks, faced the dance floor and took a few steps forward in order to people watch while I took my time deciding which drink to try.   Right as I was opening my mouth to place my order…

“Well, HELLO!” a guy said with a thick Scottish accent coming from the shadows to the side of the bar.

“Um, hi,” I replied taken off guard by his Scottish dialect.

“Where ya FROM!?” the Scot excitedly asked at about 10 times louder than a normal speaking volume level.

“New York City,” I said trying to be short to give him the idea that I wanted to order a drink.

“I’M FROM SCOTLAND! I wanna DANCE with ya!” the Scot demanded as he cornered me.  He proceeded to back away from me doing a ridiculous jig to show his skills.

He stopped, came right up to my face and yelled, “AREN’T MY MOOOOVVES DANGEROUS!?”

I stood strikingly still, looked around trying to find my friends to save me, but they were no where to be found.  The guy just kept doing his jig, which moved to his hips and upper body as he looked for my approval and wonderment after each ‘move.’

“I know whatcha thinkin’….. that I’M DEAD SEXY!!!”

Oh. My. God.

“I want to MAKE OUT with ya!” The Scot screamed as he shoved his haggis flavored tongue down my throat.  He backed away and returned to his jig, picking up his shirt to show me his hairy chest.

“I want to GO HOME with ya,” as he approached me and went in for seconds.  After he was done, he turned around and returned to his jig with movements being led by his bottom.

I looked around for my friends to save me.  I looked around for ANYONE to save me.  The Scottish guy was stealing everyone’s attention within a 10 foot radius.  His friends pulled him away telling him that it was time to go home, and I spotted my friends crying from hysterical laughter at what they had just witnessed.

Some random guy came up from the dance floor and stopped me with, “Wow.  The entire dance floor stopped just to witness that whole thing.”

…..AWKWARD!!!!

Is it Awkward??

Grandma Duty

Tara pulled the short straw at Sunday dinner for the third straight week.  Family dinner is at 4:30 sharp every Sunday, at the end of the meal it is decided who has Grandma duty the following Sunday.  Normally it rotates, but sometimes schedules don’t allow the rotation to work properly and one person winds up baring the brunt for a while. Tara enjoyed spending time with her Grandmother, but it was tiring.  “Grans” was approaching 83 and had decided that normal social graces and properness no longer applied to her.

Tara had become an old pro at Grandma duty.  She set out her outfit Saturday afternoon.  Carefully choosing a church appropriate spring dress – knee length, light orange, with a hint of a pattern from a distance.  She then set her alarm for 8am the following morning, and was free from Grandma related tasks.  She went for a run and met some friends for a drink.  Sunday, Tara woke up after hitting snooze a half dozen times and regretting having that extra drink the night before.  She primped until she looked just done enough to avoid Grans discerning eye, and picked Grans up at 9:15 on the dot.  Tara was greeted with a curt “Flip flops for Church.  What is the world coming too?”  Tara smiled politely and helped Grandma into the car.

Grandma made it through mass with limited interruptions.  The homily was too short, the kids texting through mass were rude, and the mass as a whole was rushed.  For Grandma, this was a short list of complaints.  The two went grocery shopping where the prices were too high and the store too large.  It was a typical Sunday with Grandma.  As 4 o’clock approached, Tara decided they could arrive at dinner a few minutes early.  Getting Grandma in and out of a store in under 30 minutes was a chore, and it was nice day.  Tara parked the car, and she and Grans took a seat on the bench outside the restaurant.

Grans decided she wanted a cigarette, at 83 she could do anything she wanted.  She pulled a cigarette out of her purse and puffed away.  Grans quietly enjoyed her cigarette while observing the scenery; Tara was happy for a few moments of smokey silence.  Tara then noticed a woman exiting the restaurant wearing the same church appropriate light orange spring dress as her.  The two woman exchanged pleasant “nice dress” smiles.  At that moment, Grans took a long drag of her cigarette, and noticed the same woman Tara had.  Grans exhaled dramatically, toss her cigarette hand to the side, and pointed towards Tara’s dress twin with the other.  Chimming in loud enough for all to hear,  “Isn’t that a lovely dress for a FAT lady.”  Mortified Tara quickly put out Grans’ cigarette, and moved from the outdoor bench into the restaurant waiting area.

…AWKWARD!

A Summons With Your Name On It

There’s nothing more annoying than getting a summons in the City of New York.  It’s surely annoying getting a ticket for a small misjudgment that could have been prevented if the rules were followed.  It certainly feels like an injustice being the only one getting a summons for jaywalking in NYC, when everyone else around is committing the same offense.  But, most of all, it’s annoying getting caught red handed, receiving a ticket in Manhattan from an unyielding cop, and now appearing for a mandatory court appearance with no “pay and forget about it” option. 

Today, Sara (***NOTE:  THE NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGED TO PROTECT THE AWKWARD***) had to make an appearance in front of a downtown judge for a summons she received while she was out for a night partying with her friends.  She had set her alarm clock the night before to go off at 8:00 AM for an ample amount of time in order to prepare herself for a 9:00 AM hearing.  She opened her eyes, yawned, and stretched her arms slowly and calmly being up before her alarm buzzed.

She knew she had to look her very best in the eyes of the judge, who would ultimately decide the outcome of her legalistic fate.  Taking her time, she showered with extra shampoo and conditioner, blow-dried her hair to straight perfection and painted her face with makeup so carefully making sure each lash was curled and darkened with mascara.

Her outfit – black dress pants, a button down shirt and fancy cardigan – was hand chosen and eloquently ironed the previous night, while she rehearsed a statement she would use to defend herself if given the chance.

Sara followed the speed limit at 45 mph over the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, endured through traffic on the BQE and conquered the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel carefully, but efficiently.  She did not want to receive another summons for reckless driving and duplicate a day like today.

Pacing herself, she parked the car, walked to the building, and entered the courtroom.  She was the first one in the room filled with pews and a giant podium carved of oak.  To the front of the room, stood a red, white and blue American flag beside a blue and orange New York State flag, making the room look ever so official.

The time was approaching 9:00 AM, and, in the back of the room, a line formed of fellow ticket holders waiting to be called.  Sara was the head of the parallel line, followed by some casual looking folk mixed with street gremlins, who surely have been through this routine before.

“ALL RISE!”

The courtroom fell silent.  The person standing next to Sara was a disheveled man in his 30s dressed in cut up jeans with a t-shirt on inside out, and a cigarette tucked behind his ear.

“Can you believe I had to come here all the way from Harlem for a jaywalking ticket?” He asked in his raspy voice hoping that Sara would respond with her ticket information to ease the nerves within a stressful circumstance.  Sara just smiled slightly to shut him up.  She was not going to share her ticket story.

The woman sitting on the other side of Sara, wearing a t-shirt with paint stains, one red knee high sock and one orange bobby sock jumped right in, “I know! I have to get back to the East Village. I have to go late to work for this moving violation… running a red light… ON A BICYCLE…IN A PARK!!”  Sara smiled slightly to shut her up.

“The following persons please step forward,” the bailiff announced deafeningly as he looked at his clipboard of scheduled hearings.   “John Dreder. Jay Walking.”

John Dreder stepped out of line like a professional ticket holder and stood in the front pew.

“John Dreder, how do you plead?”  The judge asked systematically.

John Dreder made eye contact with the police officer, who gave the ticket, standing right next to him.

“Guilty,” he replied defeated.

“Ok, John, please have a seat until the series of these hearings are finished. Then you can pay the fine and be released.”

“Susan Johnson.  Moving Violation,” the bailiff loudly declared.

Susan Johnson stepped out of line and stood in the front pew next to John, the jaywalker.

“Susan Johnson, how do you plead? The judge repeated.

The same police officer in the plaintiff section stood still to await her answer.

“Guilty,” she said quickly in order to get out of there fast and get to her day job.

“Ok, Susan, please have a seat until the next hearing. Then you can pay the fine and be released.”

“Sara Fitzpatrick,” the bailiff stated and paused for what seemed like longer than the other offenders. He looked at Sara, did a double take, and ear-splitting-ly announced her offense, “PUBLIC URINATION.”

Sara stepped out of line as her stomach dropped, with her head down in shame and stood in the front pew next to Susan and John.  They both look and move in sync away from her towards the left.

“Sara, how do you plead?”

Her mind raced from being caught completely off-guard by the public announcement.  Everything she had recited the night before in order to defend herself had seemed to trickle out of her brain and ego.  She dodged eye contact with the police officer and opened her mouth, where nothing came out.   Everyone looked to her waiting for a reply, and Sara felt every eye in the room piercing right through her.

“Guilty,” Sara silently replied, “when ya gotta go, ya gotta go.”

…..Awkward!

Can I get your numba?

“Can I get your number?” Is there a phrase more direct and cringe worthy?  The answer to that question depends on whose asking, how the phrase is delivered and whether you’re willing to give up your digits.  For example, when I first met my now boyfriend, he ever so smoothly asked, “Can I have your number, so I can wish you a happy fourth of July tomorrow?” It was cute, and had a purpose behind the request.  Most importantly, I wanted him to have my number.  Plus, it gave me a natural flirting tactic when he didn’t use my number until July 6, obeying the unspoken two-day rule, but not following through on wishing me a happy fourth of July.

There are instances when a guy who thinks he laid the ground work properly blurts out the blunt and dreaded, “Can I get yo numba?” No reason why, no cuteness, just a demand, lacking all social grace and courtship.  Por ejemplo:  Can I get yo numba?

Two good friends of mine, Paul and Erin, went out to a local watering hole one Friday night.  Paul ran into a long lost friend, and got lost catching up in old times.  Erin listened intently for awhile, but a girl can only take so many names she doesn’t know and events she hadn’t been to before getting bored.  Looking around Erin found herself quickly being chatted up by Danny.  Searching for a common topic to discuss, Danny decided Erin herself would be the topic.  He ran through “get to know you,” and  “how you doing” questions at rapid fire.  Erin barely had time to answer.  She tried to hint to Danny that she wasn’t interested.  She went to the bathroom, ordered herself a beer, even tried hitting Paul to get his attention, but nothing would shake the over eager Danny from her side.

Just as Paul and his friend came back into the conversation, Danny got up the nerve to ask, “Can I get your number?”  Clearly too dense to read the signals, Erin quickly responded with, “Oh, just Facebook me.”  Danny left shortly after that, and Erin sighed a breath of relief that she had avoid further contact with her unwanted suitor.  She had setup her Facebook privacy settings tighter than Fort Knox, and knew full well Danny would never find her.  Jovially, she explained what had happened to Paul, and was happy to have avoided the moment of saying, “No, you can’t have my number.”

A few days later, Paul logged into his Facebook account and saw that he had a new message from a Daniel S.  At first, Paul thought it was spam from some bar invite since he wasn’t friends with any Daniel S.  He quickly realized it was Erin’s creeper from Friday night.  Paul opened the message to read:

“Yo Boy”

Werd son, your friend Erin has it going on, and I really need your help.  She told me to find her on Facebook, but the girl is like casper.  Can you send me her number so I can get in touch with her.  Your boy needs a new girl.

Paul sat for awhile, considering how he should respond.  It took him some time to realize that “casper” referred to the friendly ghost who could only be seen when he wanted.  Paul considered being mean.  He could play a trick on Danny boy, or he could just tell it as it is.  Paul opted for the later.  He hit reply and fired away, trying to maintain Danny’s sophisticated language.

“Re: Yo Boy”

Listen son.  Your girl Erin, is my GIRLFRIEND Erin… She told you to friend her on Facebook since she isn’t on Facebook.  It was a nice way of blowing you off.  Sorry Bro.

PS – Common courtesy says you should friend someone before asking for their girlfriends number, just saying.

Needless to say, Paul never got a message back from Danny.  Danny did however send Paul a friend request two days later.  Paul still has it sitting in Limbo.

…AWKWARD!